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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24643369">Who put Bella in the wych elm?</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethestantomypeggy/pseuds/bethestantomypeggy'>bethestantomypeggy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes &amp; Related Fandoms</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF John Watson, Canon Compliant, Crime Scenes, Crimes &amp; Criminals, Dead People, Drunk John, Drunk Sherlock Holmes, Feels, Fluff and Angst, Funny, Humor, M/M, Mutilation, Partners in Crime, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon, Post-Season/Series 04, Repressed John Watson, Repressed Sherlock Holmes, Slow Burn, Top John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-29</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 02:20:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>7</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>26,248</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24643369</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bethestantomypeggy/pseuds/bethestantomypeggy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>On April 18th 1943, three boys discovered something quite disturbing in Hagley Wood. While climbing a big wych elm in search of bird eggs, one boy noticed that a skeleton of an animal was stuck in the hollow trunk of the tree. Upon retrieving the bones, however, they appeared to belong to a human’s body - a woman's body. The skeleton had been unremarkably preserved and completely intact, if it weren't for her missing hands. </p><p>Police would later clarify that the woman - nicknamed Bella - had been the victim of a murder, for they had found a piece of clothing in her mouth. Despite her wedding ring, remains of clothing and hair, they were unable to identify Bella's identity. The skeleton later disappeared, so when the technology advanced no DNA testing could be done.</p><p>A year after the mysterious discovery, an intriguing graffiti sign appeared in town, asking the villagers “Who put Bella in the wych elm?”. Since the answer to that question remains unanswered till this date, it is doomed to reappear now and then, plastered on buildings and memorials in various villages in England.</p><p>Even in London.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Sherlock Holmes/John Watson</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>67</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. London calling</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>This story is co-created by kamala and bethestantomypeggy and based on the unresolved mystery of ‘Bella in the Wych Elm’ that took place in 1943-1944. Even though the crime described in this story is based on actual events, this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the authors’ imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Needless to say that we do not own the Sherlock (BBC) characters. That didn't stop us though to use them to our own advantage. Enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Boredom seeped into him. It always did. It was inevitable. Whenever he got bored he could practically hear the apartment begging him not to take his frustrations out on it. He sprawled out on the couch, as if he was posing, and squeezed his eyes closed. </p><p>
  <em> Pause. Breathe. Just try to stay relaxed. </em>
</p><p>He stayed relaxed for about three seconds when he stood up abruptly.</p><p>“Christ! There are seven billion people alive, at least one could bother me with a decent case. Have the criminal classes just decided to have a holiday to spite me?” He yelled out loud, to the audience of a wall and an old skull. Ever one for the dramatics. His own monologue with no one watching. <em>Tragic really.</em></p><p>In reality, he had cases piled up in his inbox, but only now was he desperate enough to take one. Just to stop his brain from rotting. He needed a fix, and if he couldn’t do that, at least he’d have some excuse to complain about how irritating other people seemed to be. </p><p>Sherlock reached for his laptop, boney fingers dancing over keys. He scrolled through emails, trying to see if there was anything that caught his eye.</p><p> “Dull, dull, dull.”</p><p>He paused when seeing one email that stood out.  It was titled simply, ‘Who put Bella in the wych elm?’ Followed with a picture of the graffiti over a local obelisk that was put there to mark where they used to burn witches during 1558 – 1736. He sighed, carding a hand through his thick dark curls. Well, it was only graffiti, but he had a good feeling about this. One he couldn’t quite place yet, though, but at the least he could make up an excuse to bother John. God knows civilian life didn’t exactly suit him. The poor doctor would be dying for an escape soon. </p><p>Their relationship had always been a bit odd, but the distance between them had built a terrible tension that could’ve made him squirm. It had been weeks or...well months since they had last spoken. He grabbed his phone, typing and re-typing the same message over and over again. Eventually, he settled for simply saying.</p><p>‘You’re bored. Come see me. SH’</p><p>----</p><p>Influenza had struck again, meaning that the days at the clinic were long and dull. Newborns, toddlers, elderly, John had seen them all, never being able to do more than give them general health advice and painkillers. The most interesting cases never reached their clinic, for they had already called in an ambulance, leaving John and the rest of the staff to deal with insufferable, meaningless ones. </p><p>Speaking of cases, John found himself checking his phone too often nowadays. Desperate for any kind of sign something exciting, dangerous, <em> just less dull </em>, was about to happen. Unfortunately for him, his phone remained deadly silent. The hardest part of all, John had not even dared to contact the person who he knew could offer him the excitement he was looking for. He was ashamed of his absenteeism, having ignored the stream of messages in the past, now, John was afraid the consulting detective did not even want to text him anymore.</p><p>Well, that thought abruptly disappeared when he heard his phone chime. <em> How the hell? </em> John stared in disbelief at the message's preview on his phone. <em> Infuriating bastard.  </em></p><p>How dare he- But he was right, wasn't he? John <em> was </em> bored. Down to his bones. The most infuriating part was that the limbic part of his brain went on auto-pilot. Like he was starving for the detective's attention. Aggravated, John scrunched the scratch paper on his desk, aiming for the bin, and missing. <em> Dammit! </em> Best to keep the bastard waiting. Sherlock probably thought John was going to respond immediately at his every whim. He should realise by now that times had considerably changed. <em> Tosser </em>. </p><p>'No. JW' </p><p>Well, so much for not responding, <em> immediately </em>. Pathetic, John, really. Breathing frantically through his nose, John eyed his phone suspiciously, expecting a smug response within seconds. When the light on his screen lit up before his phone buzzed, his expectations were confirmed. </p><p>‘Meet me at the Chinese restaurant just opposite Baker Street at 6. SH’ </p><p>John sighed. No point in arguing with Sherlock or with himself. He knew he was going to show up at the restaurant anyway. He decided he would end up five minutes later just to spite the cocky bastard.</p><p>Wrapping his coat tightly around him, the doctor stepped in the mild spring breeze, relieved to see that the sun had not set yet and that the nights were getting longer and longer. Making his way over to the tube, he texted Molly while avoiding bumping into London’s busy crowd. John was so indebted to her. Without complaint or hesitation, Molly always agreed to step in and take care of his two year old daughter. If it weren’t for Molly’s extreme thoughtfulness as well as her unrelenting helpfulness, John would be out of his depth, not being able to manage his work and his life. His co-workers already assumed he had moved past the grieving face, falling for his Barts’ pathologist. Little did they know that Molly’s interests lay elsewhere.</p><p>When Molly’s response came almost immediately too, John let out a small chuckle for not believing his own naivety. Knowing the detective’s thorough measures to get and maintain his devoted attention, John should not have been surprised that Molly was already on her way over to his apartment. <em> Damn bastard </em>.</p><p>Waiting in his clean, polished kitchen, watching his daughter eat, John felt nervousness build up in his lower belly, rising till it was fully running through his veins. The feeling never left his system when he kissed Rosie goodnight, said his thanks to Molly, got in the tube, and finally arrived at the restaurant at 5.56 pm. Sighing once again, he dragged his too eager body inside, hoping he’d be able to maintain some decorum for the rest of the evening. </p><p>Once seated at a small table in the front of the restaurant, John caught himself fiddling with his fingers - noticing how foolish he might look to anyone watching him. He tried not to stare outside, dreading that Sherlock would catch him sitting already in place like the well-trained soldier he once was. This whole evening already felt like a battlefield. John was particularly afraid of stepping on the mines that lay scattered around him and Sherlock, setting off an entire explosion of unshed thoughts and feelings. Though, the worst thing that could happen was that Sherlock would end up with one black eye, maybe two. John laughed at that. No, he was not going to do that. Sherlock would not be able to rile him up. John was going to be composed tonight. </p><p>Calm.</p><p>Of course, his planned composure disappeared the moment Sherlock turned up, <em> five fucking minutes late </em>, with his bloody coat turned up, looking entirely out of place in the shady, dimly-lit restaurant. When the bastard approached their table, John saw his smirk and dreaded the remarks that would follow about how desperate John must look to him. True, he was desperate, he would give him that. When Sherlock sat down in front of him, John realised he had been holding his breath since the moment his old friend had walked in.</p><p>"You wanted to see me?” He hated how he so easily returned the detective's smile. God, he truly had missed this. </p><p>“I figured we both needed something to do.” Sherlock leaned back in his rather uncomfortable chair, not bothering with the pleasantries of ‘How are you? How’s the kid? Some terrible weather right?’ Small talk was not particularly important to him. He probably thought of it as bland niceties.</p><p>“You know the tales of Bella and the wych elms surely,” the detective stated, quick enough to stop John trying to whine at him about doing this so out of the blue or how he was sick of his attitude. Whenever he complained like that he knew he sounded like a disappointed spouse. “Well. I have reason to believe someone - some group of people are trying to recreate it.” </p><p>The smells of food rolled in waves. They had done this before. So many times. Though now something felt different, there had been an intangible change that neither of them could quite put into words. John opened up his menu, intending to select nothing at all, but just doing so because he could not keep his hands still. Smiling, he acknowledged Sherlock’s eagerness, “Trust you to skip right to the case.” Turning his attention back to Sherlock, John regarded him over the edge of his menu. He looked disturbingly familiar and inviting. Like a magnet pulling John down to experience deep heights and extreme lows. John shut his menu and sighed. <em> Shit </em>, he was already sold, completely intrigued, and Sherlock had probably already deduced John would eagerly sink his teeth into a case like this by the way he had held his menu or by some minor peculiar detail that was only obvious in hindsight. Clearing his throat and twitching in his seat, he continued, “What makes you think people are trying to re-create this type of murder?” John suddenly realised, “Are there new graffiti signs?”</p><p>“I know there’s often similar graffiti, but what caught my eye was how perfectly precise it was. Exact same typography- but the edges didn’t look harsh enough to suggest a stencil. Doesn’t seem like something a drunk teenager could do. Not to mention the placement. It’s down on the obelisk, the one to mark where they burnt witches. Normally quite busy.” Sherlock pulled up his phone, sliding it across the table. John squinted at the picture on the screen, silently cursing his older age for needing to bring the phone closer to his face in order to see it properly. </p><p>"Surely, there is more for you to believe that this refers to an actual murder, or to an attempt at that. Any girls gone missing?" John was still squinting at the picture, running over the facts of the mysterious murder in his head. Why would anyone want to defile a memorial with this sign? </p><p>"What's next? You contacted Lestrade?", he held the phone up for Sherlock to take back.</p><p>Drumming his fingers on the table, the detective remained quiet for as long as he could bear before ignoring Johns enquiries completely, “I think I should mention the church adjacent to the memorial just got bought out by some new wave religion- vaguely pagan inspired. Isn’t it funny what people believe?” </p><p><em> Bloody hell </em> . Sherlock found them a case. And an interesting one at that. John felt himself smiling. <em> Bloody fool </em>. "Amazing," immediately scrunching up his nose at the realization he had given in so easily. "So, what are we waiting for? You must want to speak with these Harry Potter people." If, of course, Sherlock hadn't already done that. With those long, violin fingers, Sherlock could easily fire off more text messages per hour than anyone or anything he could think of. "If they are under any real threat, they might know who wants to hurt them."</p><p>Those deep-set eyes bored into John’s, holding his gaze in a blatant stare. “Mhm, but I thought I’d get you to come along so I seem less... well. I’m not sure I’d be exactly great at talking to people who pretend to be witches.” </p><p>That was his way of saying ‘I missed you’, John was sure of it. Sherlock just had a funny way of expressing himself. "Scared they'll burn you alive, eh?" He stretched himself and let out a deep breath. "Course. I'll go with you." He added a brief smile to make sure Sherlock understood how grateful he was that he wasn't forgotten, discarded as being useless after all. He was itching to be back on the hunt for leads. And god when Sherlock smiled back, it was almost like he could’ve forgotten how long it had been since they had spoken.</p><p>They slipped back into old habits too easily.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Season of the witch</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sherlock and John in a church, trying to catch witches.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Outside the restaurant, the song of everyday life rang clear. The orchestra of London with bustling streets that remained unchanging. Sherlock called an awfully overpriced taxi, motioning for John to come fast, who followed Sherlock’s lead only because he was desperate to see the detective back doing what he did best. What both of them did best.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Right, can you take us to the obelisk- near Albany street.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Seated next to each other in an overheated, smelly cab, John ventured to think that this is where they belonged. Crammed in the back seat, racing towards something that - unfortunately - was soon to be a crime scene. He felt Sherlock buzzing next to him and failed to suppress the smile that was forming on his face. Peering through the small window, he saw that the streets became wider and that the houses were replaced by more and more trees. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"This is the beginning of Albany street, sir." The taxi stopped in front of the entrance to the park. "You can follow this road into the park to get to the memorial.” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was getting late, dim street lights illuminated the pavement, splashing their surroundings in a hue of light. "Right," John muttered as he set foot on the deserted street. Somehow, they always ended up in situations like these. Who would be able to see a memorial from up close if everything was pitch black around them? "Any chance you got a flashlight with you?" he asked, whirling around to see that Sherlock had already set foot into the park without waiting for John. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Typical.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>“God I forget you’re old sometimes.” The detective’s voices trailed behind him and John saw that he grabbed his phone to switch the flashlight on. The git probably forgot he did not own such a fancy phone. Pointing the stream of light at the obelisk, Sherlock touched the paint cautiously, his low baritone voice sounding intrigued and irritated at the same time. “How do we find witches then? I doubt they have Sunday service. Do they have an ‘I’m a witch’ badge?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>John scoffed at his partner’s ignorance, "If we have any luck, we might catch them doing some sort of ritual in the park.” Truly, Sherlock did not believe they actually were performing witchcraft, was he? From what he'd heard, branches of Wiccans held secret mediation sessions in occluded places, talking about supernatural sightings, worshipping nature and all that bullshit John did not even </span>
  <em>
    <span>want </span>
  </em>
  <span>to understand. "Don't know about badges. Though, if you see someone with a witches' teat on their body, you might want to watch out". John mocked playfully, quickly hiding his smile at the irritated stare he received in return. He was about to suggest they turned towards the church when he caught a sudden movement out of the corner of his eye. Turning abruptly, a small, light figure ran away from them, moving dizzyingly fast between the park’s obstacles as if the fugitive was very familiar with the surroundings. "Uhm, Sherlock?"</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What do you— oh. Oh!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sherlock’s head turned fast to try and get a faint view of whoever it was that was racing away from them. To no avail. He tugged at John's arm as he started to run to catch up. Losing his footing, John saw the detective disappear from view, chasing the light-footed shadow into the dense forest. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sherlock!” The detective could run fast too, he would give him that, but sometimes John thought that Sherlock forgot that he, John Watson, had been a soldier. And a damn good one at that. Years and years of combat had trained his eyes to trace figures in the dark, being smart in his hunt. He needed to outthink his catch, to predict and anticipate on their every move. This time, his intuitions had been right again. In afterthought, it was quite obvious the figure would want to divert their attention by running straight away from them, but John knew that the person would want to avoid stepping into the light. If John had any luck, the fugitive would avoid turning right, running further into the woods where his prey could misstep and betray its whereabouts fairly easily by stepping on dead branches. Hence, John suspected the person would turn left, leaving the park to disappear between the white buildings. So there was where John was waiting for his prey, ready to pounce on the person who had tried so desperately to run away from them. As the sun disappeared around him, he heard light footsteps appear on the pavement. John took an intake of breath before he pounced and trapped the squirming fugitive under him, securing the light figure’s lashing hands and calling out to Sherlock once more. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>The detective re-appeared, hurrying over to aid John by pressing his weight down, which might’ve been handier if he wasn’t quite so lean. “Who are you?” Sherlock implored. "Let- mmph, let go of me!" a small voice shrieked. John managed to pull the small body upwards so that they both could get a good look at the stranger's face. Yanking the person’s jumper down, they were greeted with an unexpected sight. A narrow-faced man, no, boy, stared back at them, eyes narrowed to slits. "I ain't done nothing wrong!" The boy was breathing frantically and still struggling to break free out of their grasp. "Then why did you run off, mmh?" John asked while looking over at Sherlock, who was observing him and the boy with a pensive look on his face. At times like these, John would give anything just to get a small glimpse of what was going on inside Sherlock's mind. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>Just as he was about to yank the boy upwards, the doctor heard a familiar voice behind him. "Gentleman, goodnight.” Sighing unevenly, John looked appreciatively yet chagrined at the detective. Somehow, Sherlock had managed to call Lestrade. Glancing at the Detective Inspector, John let go of the boy, allowing two officers to relieve them of their catch. When Lestrade’s men took over, the boy’s jumper was pushed further down his face, revealing a disturbing, small apotropaic mark that blemished the boy’s pale, long neck. Somewhat mortified, John noticed it was a scarification. The practice of cutting into flesh to form patterns. As the lines were still ink-red, John figured it was done fairly recently. In time, the mark would heal to form a scar permanently.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Congratulations, gentlemen. You captured yourself a drug-addict. He thought you were the police-," Lestrade scoffed at that, eyeing Sherlock's coat. "Damn, didn’t think you two were really gagging that much for action," Gregory muttered under his breath, coming to stand next to John.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Wait, what? Was that it? </span>
  </em>
  <span>With a questioning look on his face, John whirled around towards his partner, whispering under his breath, “Did you see the tattoo on the boy’s neck?” The deep-set eyes of his partner were devoid of any emotions when he answered him with a stream of words. “Apotropaic ‘evil eye’. A symbol. Apotropaic Greek for to ward off. Cast off. To turn. Magic to ward off something deadly.” Thoughts were apparently running through the detective’s head, crawling about as he clutched onto whatever was relevant. An internal battle against the limits of his human memory. Facing the Detective Inspector, Sherlock deadpanned, “We’re going to question him in the morning. I’m not asking. I’m just telling you what’s going to happen.” Without waiting for a confirmation, the consulting detective stepped away, marching back into the park. Smiling apologetically towards Lestrade, John turned around to catch up with the lanky disappearing figure in front of him. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"So, this means you want to go to the church this late at night," he whispered when he’d finally fallen in line with Sherlock. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh come on, it's a church, I’m not the antichrist. It won’t kill me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>John didn’t know what they were ought to expect from the church. From the outside, it looked perfectly ordinary except for one striking detail. Ivory twisted up every wall. Leaves were sprawling over windows and flowers poked out from the cracks. It seemed like nature was trying to slowly reclaim the building. It was beautiful. Undoubtedly so. The stained glass windows were chipped and faded, and the place looked like it hadn’t been touched in quite some time. Sherlock walked over to the entrance. The door seemed relatively new, indicating that some attempt at redecoration had started. He pushed on the door, smiling smugly towards John when it opened without a fuss. "Well look at that. Somebody desperately wants to try and convert you, Sherlock," John remarked, following his friend inside. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was pitch dark and the smell of recently blown out candles and incense filled John’s nostrils. Somebody had been inside not long ago. He was not very fond of churches. The last time he had been in a church like this one was when he and Mary had Rosie baptized. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Mary</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The sudden revelation that he hadn't thought about his deceased wife for the entire late evening struck through him, along with the realisation that he desperately missed how she'd made him feel at home. Welcomed. Assured. Shaking his head, John squinted through the darkness, noticing the outlines of various sheets that were covering the empty pews. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Odd</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Why would anyone want to burn candles in an abandoned place like this so late at night?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Someone’s been waiting for us,” Sherlock whispered while he walked past by him, flicking on the flashlight on his phone again. “Something is unnerving</span>
  <em>
    
  </em>
  <span>about churches, don’t you agree. So historical. So odd. They conjure images of tele-evangelists from America. Cults. Demons. The lengths people go to, to avoid nihilism is astounding.” The detective moved to the altar standing prominent in the centre back of the church under a rather unnerving statue of Jesus. “A bit on the nose, isn’t it?” </span>
</p><p>
  <span>"Even for you? You love the theatrics, Sherlock", John said as he stepped closer to the statute. "Perhaps they were redecorating it too. Romani people, for instance, are very fond of repainting the bloody holes - Unless it isn't paint." He touched the red fluid and brought his finger to his nose. "Christ, Sherlock, it's blood". At John's hiss, a sound echoed behind them, startling them both. John whirled around so fast he bumped into Sherlock's back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His friend scoffed at that, “I don’t know whether I should be disappointed or slightly endeared at how you always seem to grasp things a second too late. We need to run a DNA test on this, it could be from a member. If they still do scarification I wonder if they-“ Sherlock paused, chewing on the inside of his mouth. “No, I shouldn’t make presumptions until we find out who’s blood this is.” He turned to look at John. They were too close. Always were. The detective really didn’t have a concept of personal space.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I doubt the church will be of any use to us right now. If you want, you can come back with me and help figure out everything we can about whoever practises here. Members. Dates. Rituals. That sort of thing." Sherlock paused, eyes darting between those of John. "But it’s late and I assume you want to see Rosie.” The detective was slightly towering over John, deductions streaming out of his mouth like he always had done. It had always been captivated to look at, and John had always found himself lucky to be included in the process. Tonight was no exception. Hell, for all John knew, Sherlock had already solved half of the case. He did not even seem the slightest bit unnerved that that was someone's blood plastered all over a very scare looking Jesus statue. To Sherlock, this was the best fix he could get.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Clearing his throat, he stepped back to allow some more space in between them. "You know, I doubt Molly will mind staying over. She had her overnight bag with her," he let out a small smile. "I'll text her. Besides, you might need the extra hand in surfing the net." They both knew that wasn't entirely true. Although nervousness filled John at the thought of returning to the flat, something inside him urged him to join Sherlock, to not let go. Not just yet. "Let's grab a cab."</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Alone again or</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Drunk John admitting his obsession with a certain part of his ex-flatmate's anatomy.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>About 15 minutes later, John found himself standing outside 221B Baker Street again, looking at the building that had been so familiar before. It pained him to realise that he had called this apartment <em> home  </em>once. Sitting down in armchairs that never were too comfortable, both of them found themselves in the unspoken knowledge that they just wanted the other's company. Sherlock didn’t need him there, nor did John really want to be there. He kept glancing around, taking in their dusty, messy surroundings. </p><p>“Right. Where to start.” Sherlock said with his phone in hand, breaking the silence that covered the awkwardness between them. The silence was something they were used to. For days, sometimes weeks, they'd sat silently in each other's company, neither saying a word. Back then, it had been a comfortable retreat from Sherlock's outburst of boredom. Now, it was nerve-racking.</p><p>"Right. Something to drink?" Tea? No. John needed something stronger than that to cope with all the memories that floated around them. "There better be some brandy in here- You want?" Alcohol was probably not the wisest idea, but he really couldn't care less.</p><p>Without looking up, Sherlock deadpanned “Definitely. Just in the cupboards.”</p><p>Brandy was poured and Sherlock’s phone was momentarily forgotten probably to enjoy the burning sensation of the liquor trickling down his throat. As Sherlock quickly downed his drink, John contemplated how much alcohol his friend could take. The lanky figure was such a lightweight. Probably because he had a tendency of not eating. Following suit, John emptied his drink, concluding that both of them had no intention of ending the day sober. </p><p>John began tapping his hand on his thighs. A telltale that revealed his inner turmoil. Reaching for the bottle again, he glanced at Sherlock, who was watching him, no, <em>observing </em>him with his deep-set eyes. John felt his face flush under the intensity of his gaze, or it happened because the alcohol finally found its way through his system. "So," he sighed, "this is the first interesting case presented to you in what, three or four months?"</p><p>“Well. Yes, I guess so. God. That’s a bit depressing.”</p><p>From what John heard from Molly, Sherlock had been in a bit of a slump for the past months. He’d been trying to stimulate his brain, anyway he could. Reading. Experiments. Having unfortunate experiences with LSD which led him to profess he knew the meaning of the universe before climbing up to the rooftop singing at the top of his lungs while he watched the clouds dance.</p><p>“Mm, how’s civilian life treating you?”</p><p>Small talk. Great. They were back there, dancing around the tension. John decided he needed more brandy so he generously poured them another glass if it were an automatic function of limbs. “Good. Mostly potty-training, handling tantrums, clearing away toys and forced feedings. Nothing new, I’d say,” he chuckled in his drink. He was getting drunk really really fast this way. “I heard Molly caught you on another rooftop a few months back.” He swallowed, averting his eyes. “Planning on disappearing again?” John turned the glass in his hand. <em>So much for small talk. </em></p><p>“Ah. Well. I may have been singing Pink Floyd very loudly while on hallucinogens.“ The bastard had the audacity to smirk. “Just a calm afternoon for my standards.”</p><p>“Pink Floyd?” John snorted. “God, I’ve missed this.” <em> Shit </em>. He’d said that aloud, hadn’t he? He looked at his drink, blaming the innocent liquor for his blunt openness.</p><p>“Cases are great for adrenaline. I can see why you’d miss it. Can’t imagine potty training has quite the same high as chasing serial killers.”</p><p>“No,” John said a bit too loud, boldness taking hold over him. “Not just the cases.” He made sure to maintain direct eye-contact with Sherlock’s wide, blazing eyes when he tried to force the words out of his mouth. “I-“ He gestured between himself and the detective. “You know.” <em> No, John, he probably didn’t.  </em> Feeling himself smirk at his own foolishness, he hid his face in his left hand. “Alright.” John took a deep breath, looking back at the silent figure in front of him. “I should probably say this now or I never will. I missed  <em> this </em>,” He gestured again between himself and Sherlock.</p><p>The detective remained silent, not moving a muscle. He just stared blankly back at John before he picked up his phone again, blurting out randomly, “Right, so there must be some sort of driving reason this happened now. They seem quite ritualistic. There must be some significant date-”</p><p><em> Shit </em> . John realised he’d just crossed too many boundaries at once. He had invaded the enemy’s territory without a clear plan or backup, and now he was screwed. Did he just think of Sherlock as the enemy?  <em> Interesting </em> . John was no fool, however. True, he was not that quick or clever like the person in front of him, but he did have eyes, thank you very much. He did. He had. For the past years, he’d had eyes too. Sherlock’s reaction screamed avoidance, an obvious telltale that he missed John too. Good.  <em> Good </em>. The liquor got him in a stronger bind and John found himself chuckling comfortably in his drunken haze. Leaning back in his chair, he supported his head with his left hand. The blunt contrast of his bliss and Sherlock’s panic not being lost on him. </p><p>“So. It was originally theorised Bella was killed because of a ritual called hands of glory. Her hands were broken off. Hands of glory... originally they used the fat from the hands of criminals who had been hung to make candles. So. Maybe not Wiccan. More occultist.”</p><p>“Poor Bella. You reckon she was a shoplifter?” John’s humour was horrendous when drunk. And when he wasn’t drunk. <em>Stay focused.</em> “Never imagined we would be investigating occult criminals.” It was actually quite endearing to see Sherlock trying his best to make sense of whatever was on his screen. <em>Endearing</em>? None of his words actually made sense to John. Fat on hands? He knew a lot of body parts that contained more fat than hands. For instance, Sherlock’s arse <em> - No. Not good. </em>  John bent forward to place his drink on the floor. <em>There</em>. He was safe.</p><p>“Apparently she was a prostitute. Or that was the theory anyway. No one actually identified who the skull belonged to.” Sherlock sounded like he was trying to appear sober by not slurring his words. John thought he wasn’t doing very well on that front as the words started to blur together in a haze. Running and mixing together.</p><p>“You’re thinking very loudly, it’s hard to concentrate.” A smirk formed on the detective’s lips. “What <em>are </em>you thinking about anyway?” Sherlock looked at John now. Fixing his gaze in a deducing stare, probably inferring his loneliness or fatigue. </p><p>Chuckling at his ex-flatmate’s whining, John slid further down into his seat, almost laying down in his chair before he blurted out, “Your arse.” As he found his outburst to be quite funny, he started chuckling in earnest. “O god. I did. I really did think about your arse.” Pure mirth was showing in the doctor’s kind eyes, revelling in the knowledge that he’d been able to shock the detective. “You could not deduce that, eh?”. He gently kicked Sherlock’s left foot.</p><p>“I—"</p><p>Sherlock’s mouth opened and closed, creating the impression of a fish out of water. In the dimly-lit room, John could make out that soft shades of crimson rose on his face, tarnishing the clear white of his skin. A small splash of colour on a blank canvas. John dared to think that if he’d been able to listen hard enough, he would have heard the detective’s brain stopped functioning, as if he’d momentarily broken him. </p><p>“I— I’m —”</p><p>John scoffed, frowning. “O come on! Like you never thought about that part of someone else’s anatomy.” He regarded Sherlock for a moment, whose pretty protruding cheekbones had turned a nice shade of red. <em> Bloody bastard </em>. “You talked about Bella’s fatty hands. Believe me, there is more fat on your arse than in anyone’s hands.” In the spur of the moment, John did not bother worrying about whether talking about one’s best mate arse didn’t exactly seem like a very strictly heterosexual thing to say to a close friend. Then again, Sherlock might believe him if he’d were to suggest that that was just a norm he never knew about. That the lads at the pub normally went around comparing arses. </p><p>“Are you saying someone should cut off my arse and make a candle out of it?”</p><p>“No, that would be a shame, wouldn’t it? And who would want to cut off your arse? I think most of the people you meet want to cut off your head. Shame if that were to happen, though. Those pretty cheekbones would be missing a face to sit on.” The doctor remarked, savouring the feeling of having out-mastered his friend for once. Sherlock was visibly growing flustered, practically squirming in his seat. The way his eyes focused and unfocused at him made John think the detective’s brain must currently feel like those funny abstract paintings. Melty watches and all that. </p><p>A devious grin spread across John’s face when he realised Sherlock might be secretly enjoying John’s admiration. Yep. This was even better than playing Cluedo with the tosser. John silently berated himself for not having done any of this before. Well, when he thought of it, he kind of had. When he asked Sherlock to be his best friend man. Best man friend. Best man, friend. Whatever. Both. John had flustered his best man friend then, shutting him up quite nicely. “Ha!”</p><p>“God I can’t believe you sometimes. You’re trying to make me uncomfortable. I get how you feel when I do experiments on you.”</p><p>“You blush quite nicely.” John wiggled his legs from side to side.“I have never experimented on you. And don’t play coy with me, <em>Holmes</em>. You enjoy being complimented. Your ego thrives when someone pays you a compliment.” John felt he was on a roll, adding smugly, “<em>Hell</em>, you smirk and shuffle those luscious locks whenever I praise you for your brilliant deductions.” He saw the detective put a hand to his own cheek as if he tried to block out what was happening in front of him. </p><p>“<em>Fine</em>. It’s not some grand surprise I like compliments. Unfortunately, I am still human.”</p><p>John ignored Sherlock’s attempt to play it off, sighing as he tried to grasp his drink from the side table next to him. “Goddamnit, Sherlock. Give it back.” He couldn’t believe the smug bastard had dared to take his drink. Come to think of it. He hadn’t seen Sherlock move from his chair. That’s it! Sherlock had watched that boring magician show on the telly and learned to distract John in order to nick his brandy. <em>Obviously</em>. He glared at his friend.</p><p>Putting his hands over his chin, Sherlock suddenly looked soberer than he did seconds ago, taking the last swig of his brandy before lying on his back and putting the cool glass to his cheek. “I’m going to leave you to figure out this next mystery.” </p><p>That’s it. Sherlock was fucking experimenting on him again because John had complimented him about his nice, fat arse. “I’m the swine, you say?” He whispered. “How dare you.” John felt his head start to throb, meaning that he was definitely ready to go to combat. And to combat he went. Sitting up straight and trying to remain in that position, he practically growled. “I pay you a nice compliment about your fucking arse and all you do is make fun of me. Fooling me.” His left foot shot forward, hitting something next to him on the floor. <em>Fuck</em>.</p><p>“Mystery solved.”</p><p>“Right. Sorry.” John meekly replied, decided against getting another sip from his drink. He cleared his throat and tried to maintain direct eye contact with his friend. “I didn’t want to offend you. I am having such a good time in, hell, a very long time.” He paused. What should he say now? “Thank you for having me.” <em>There</em>. <em>Perfect</em>. Smiling smugly, he sat back, crossing his hands in front of his body.</p><p>“I’m not offended, just caught off guard. It’s just not something I’d expect out of someone who’s very— well. You know what I mean. Are you leaving?”</p><p>“‘Try to be more specific’.” John mimicked Sherlock’s voice, bringing his two hands underneath his chin, copying Sherlock’s pose too. This man. John really did not understand this man. He regarded him, maintaining his very bad impression of his infuriating ex-flatmate. He had not seen that expression on the detective’s face before and in his drunken state, he felt bold enough to ask. “You don’t want me to leave.” Well. That didn’t quite come out like a question, didn’t it?</p><p>“I just didn’t expect it from you.” Sherlock pushed his legs against the arm of the chair, sitting upright to face him and cracking a smile that didn’t last. “No. I suppose I don’t. What do you want? Apart from continuing your mediocre impression of course.”</p><p>“ ‘You are not making sense, but I am more than happy to let it go.’ ” The way John tried to lower his voice to imitate his friend’s low baritone felt pretty spot on to him. What did he want? John wasn’t sure. Definitely some water to clear the fogginess in his head. Getting out of character - or back into it, whatever - John rubbed his face and groaned. “Is the upstairs bedroom still operable? Don’t think I want to go back tonight.” <em>Want </em>?</p><p>Sherlock nodded, hands gesturing vaguely as he spoke. “I didn’t touch it. It’s the only place that’s actually clean.”</p><p>“Good.” John nodded and averted his eyes. “I mean, that’s good.”<em>  Goddamnit, Watson. </em>  Why was he even repeating himself? “Alright.” He rubbed his thighs, feeling himself sobering up. That was not a good sign, considering the situation he found himself in. He looked back at Sherlock, unsure of what to say or do next. “You want me to check for missing prostitutes?” Wait. <em>What.</em> He frowned at his own question. God, why must he always make such a fool of himself whenever liquor was running through his system?</p><p>A soft smile tugged on the corner of Sherlock’s mouth and he snorted a little before he tried to resolve John’s dubious state of mind, “Yes- that would definitely be useful.” John surmised that Sherlock could have easily made a wisecrack about it and appreciated his friend had decided against it. The whole evening felt like a case of deja vu. John was back at Baker Street. Just for a night and then he’d be off in the morning, or whenever he was sober enough to realise this probably wasn’t a good idea. “OK. Hand me your phone.” He was not doing this on his own outdated, little machine. Typing was already difficult as it is, his fingers being too big for those fucking small buttons. John held out his right hand, urging Sherlock on and sounding somewhat demanding, “Come on.”</p><p>With some reluctancy and to John’s surprise, Sherlock handed over his phone before saying, “If Mycroft is still tracking my phone I don’t know how I’ll feel about him thinking I’m looking up sex workers at about midnight.”</p><p>That earned him a chuckle. John felt giddy again, eagerly taking Sherlock’s phone and set on doing all things imaginable just to piss off his flatmate. <em>Ex-flatmate</em>. And his noisy brother. John was sure Sherlock didn’t have much personal information on it. Possibly a few secrets about the British government tucked away somewhere. Typing away a few scandals on Sherlock’s phone, he remarked, “It surprises me that your brother hasn’t intervened already, to question you about our renewed partnership.” Somewhere, in the back of John’s mind, he filed away that he’d just acknowledged he was willing to give it a shot again. They really couldn’t part from each other. It was infuriating. He was attached. Maybe the both of them just needed the adrenaline- but it amazed him non the less that they always came full circle.</p><p>“I haven’t had the pleasure of his company in a while. Got busy. Something about Brexit and Boris Johnson. Politics are tedious when you could see how easily they are manipulated.”</p><p>“I see, and you have been so desperate to get his attention, mmh?” He was eagerly scrolling through Sherlock’s pictures, files and messages he’d sent to his brother. “I see you still haven’t had dinner with that woman.” He pursed his lips. Maybe it wasn’t a good idea to delve into this. He was a noisy teenager. He hadn’t even done this with Mary’s phone. <em> Funny </em>. That thought didn’t strike him as odd at all.</p><p>“I haven’t had good reason to. Are you really reading my texts? You’re like a jealous wife.” Sherlock joked, swivelling long limbs over the couch to stand up. </p><p>John snorted at that, following Sherlock’s movements through the room, “Like you haven’t seen the inside out of my phone and fucking laptop.” <em>Or mind</em>. He silently muttered, “Still trying to get the damn thing fixed due to all the viruses you put on it.” Scrolling down the missing person’s website, the doctor found it rather odd that a few older ladies were missing. True, there was a prostitute named Felicity who had apparently vanished into thin air, but that had happened two months ago. The last few weeks, three ladies around the age of 60 had left their loved ones one morning to never return. “Odd. Wouldn’t a grandmother return to her grandkids?” John muttered more to himself than to anyone else in the room. “Three women, aged 57, 64 and 66 have disappeared within the last two weeks. What do you think of that?”</p><p>“Maybe they’re unionising and going on strike.”</p><p>Ignoring Sherlock’s poor attempt at sarcasm, John continued scrolling down the pages. </p><p>“Late-life crisis? I mean- you don’t typically get people kidnapping old women. They’re closer to death- not as useful.” The detective peered over John’s shoulder to look at the pulled-up screen. “Anyway- why three? If someone is trying to bring attention to themselves - the graffiti, the email. They seem hell-bent on perfectly replicating the previous crime. It’d be a bit odd to just throw some old women in the mix.”</p><p>“Closer to death? My god, I’ll remember you of what you just said when you’re that age.” John turned his face towards Sherlock, noticing once again the other’s proximity. The smell of brandy, cologne and tobacco filled his nostrils. “Have you been smoking again? That way, you’re closer to death too.” He returned his attention back to the screen in front of him. “Isn’t it also odd that only one prostitute went missing this last month?” </p><p>“Mmh. Definitely. Sex work is an infamously deadly industry - mostly because it is partly criminalised and they can’t get the assistance of security without it being an offence. Try to find something out about Felicity. Maybe this was premeditated for a while. If this is related- it may be too late for her.”</p><p>“And there it is again,” John muttered at Sherlock’s bossy tone. He’d forgotten how demanding his lanky friend could be when his interest peaked. “Alright, she does fit the bill. Height 5.7, slender, brown long hair, brown eyes. <em>Christ</em>, Sherlock, she was married. That’s even odder.”</p><p>“Why is that weird? Who was she married to?”</p><p>“Here. See this?” He held up Sherlock’s mobile. “Thank god for Facebook. She was married not long ago to someone who I think grew up with her.” He changed pages and held another one up for Sherlock to see. “I find it hard to believe that she was married and soliciting herself. If I were her husband, I definitely wouldn’t want to share.”</p><p>“Open relationships- anyway, the difference between work and pleasure. Just because you’re old fashioned—” Sherlock paused for a moment, his eyes darting over the husband’s features. The clean-shaven man was dressed in a buttoned-up plain flannel shirt, staring back at the camera with a meek, forged smile. “Married young. Oh. He seems relatively conservative. Now that<em> is </em>odd.”</p><p>As John scrolled through the rest of the page, he saw that something was posted about the ‘sanctity of marriage’. Definitely something tinged with homophobia, but it was pretty clear cut that he wouldn’t have been okay with anything less traditional.</p><p>“He didn’t know.”</p><p>John smiled broadly. “We have a motive!” He cringed at the sound of his voice, berating himself for sounding like a hormonal teenager and promising himself to never drink again as it did nothing good for his ego. “Then again, she could have been abducted by one of her clients. I’m curious to know who reported her missing. I don’t see any missing ads on his page, but on her mother’s-” It pained John to see the mother’s desperate pleas for help. “If Rosie went missing-“ he stopped himself just in time.</p><p>“Don’t. She won’t. She’s safe.” Sherlock’s voice cut him off, sounding determined. “Alright- motive. Great. We are going on a wild goose chase- duck chase. <em>Christ, </em>what’s the expression again?”</p><p>John was a little taken aback by Sherlock’s sudden reassurance. He knew he cared for Rosie, if John was allowed to use the words ‘care’ and ‘Sherlock’ in the same sentence. “Going on a wild goose chase? Sherlock, with you it's never a foolish search. Wild, often, crazy and undirected, yes. But never a waste of time.” He did not know what had gotten into him tonight. Maybe it was the setting, the familiar smell of the flat, or his flatmate who probably thought John had gone on a bender. “You want to harass the poor guy first? What about the boy trapped Lestrade has detained?” The doctor watched his ex-flatmate ponder on his last words, his face showing an expression John had not seen before and, thus, did not recognise on the detective’s face.  </p><p>"There is always time to do both. Are you going to be coming?"</p><p>“Hell yes.” John stood abruptly then swaggered a little on his feet, his right leg throbbing tremendously. “You did mean right now. Didn’t you?” <em>Probably not</em>.</p><p>"We're not exactly in a fit state. Would be quite funny though-"  </p><p>John imagined them staggering over to the police station, trying to convince the officer they were detectives. Fumbling for badges. They'd probably look a little insane.</p><p>"Mmm what do normal drunk people do? I assume investigating occultists wouldn't be a very typical night out with the lads." Sherlock laughed a little, sitting down in the middle of the coffee table. It was just incredible how many ways he'd find to avoid using furniture normally. It was funny and endearing to see Sherlock sitting so relaxed on a small, wooden coffee table. Like he owned the place. <em>Which he did</em>. </p><p>John moved a little closer so that he was standing before him with his hands in his pockets, balancing on his feet. “I do recall - quite vividly- that we actually went on a case, drunk to our core.” He didn’t think that was the right expression, but there you go. “On that occasion, you even had a little nap on the client’s carpet-,” he continued, stressing the t, “-your big arse stuck out in the air.” He frowned at himself, his mind providing the mental image for him. “I really should get laid”, he muttered, only to realise that he had actually said that out loud, for unintended ears to hear. Ashamed, he pursed his lips and bit the inside of his cheek. “Right. I am going to make some tea.” Without asking whether Sherlock wanted any, he advanced towards the kitchen.</p><p>“Yes. I, unfortunately, remember too. Hence the ‘no fit state’ thing.” Sherlock’s voice trailed after him. “John. Is this all too much too fast? Being back here I mean.” His friend had followed him into the kitchen, standing behind him and keeping a moderate distance when he watched John try to make tea in the right order. </p><p>“Honestly. I don’t know.” John felt he was going to rattle when Sherlock would give him the chance to do so. Sighing unevenly, John turned around to place two teacups on the kitchen table, carefully avoiding making eye contact with Sherlock. “I am just glad to be back that’s all. And it was a long time ago since I was this plastered.” His chuckle felt forged and he quickly tried to cover it up by stressing how solitary the last few months had been. “Being alone with Rosie in that big apartment... Everything reminds me of Mary. I-,” he paused to get the boiling hot water. “I sometimes really want to go back to how things used to be. Joining you on cases. Listening to your whining,” he dared to raise his eyes at that one. “Talking. Listening. Just. You know.”</p><p>Looking up to Sherlock, John saw a pained expression on the detective’s sharp, catlike features. John knew empathy was something Sherlock had tried to forcibly turn off in his unbiased brain. For the detective, it made everything so much simpler when he was able to treat people like puzzle pieces. Unfortunately, John knew it was only good in theory and that the pretence of being a sociopath had long been abandoned in the aftermath of Sherrinford. Sherlock wasn’t as sociopathic as he liked to claim. It was just a wall he had to keep up to stop how intense everything seemed to be. </p><p>“If you’re ever struggling you can always stay here. Rosie too, of course. I wouldn’t hate the company.”</p><p>And there it was. Sherlock cared. John knew he cared and that the detective trusted him to read the subtext. He repaid his friend with a soft smile. “Thanks. That means a lot.” Afraid of biased judgments, the deranged man claimed to detach himself from his own feelings, clarifying that it helped him to see, observe and interpret without petty emotions getting in the way. John got that. He understood it. But he didn’t believe that Sherlock did not care, did not feel. It had been clear from the moment he had ripped off John’s semtex vest to the moment he hauled him from the depths of an old water well. That had to mean something. If it didn’t to Sherlock. It definitely did to John. He took in a deep breath, trying to figure out just what to say next. The silence this time wasn’t as suffocating. It just let the moment hang in the air.</p><p>Sherlock regarded John for a while as if he were cataloguing him with new eyes. It startled John slightly as he found it a little nerve-racking to watch. “Sit?” He asked, gestured to the chair next to Sherlock. “I really killed the mood. Didn’t I?” Looking at him with kind eyes, John hoped to reassure him that everything was ok. Going to be ok. Sort of. John wanted to be back, wanted to be involved. Involved in cases. Involved in Sherlock’s life. To what extent, he honestly did not know. He just felt extremely comfortable with him. Drawn to him like a drug addict in need of a fix. John got that now. “Sometimes, I wonder how Mary put up with me. Leaving everything behind to follow you on cases. To be involved in all this madness. But then I realised,” he turned his attention to a very interesting looking spot on the table, “she was as addicted just as I was. She was addicted to the person I became whenever I was with you.” That was the most honest and difficult thing he had said in a while. Thinking back to his lengthy, quiet therapy sessions, he suspected his therapist would be very proud right now.</p><p>He felt Sherlock sit down next to him, the lingering booze flowing through his system still putting him slightly at ease- even though they found themselves in a situation where they had to talk honestly. It should’ve made John’s stomach churn and he tried desperately to think through what he would say next. To speak clearly for once without the foggy haze of self-inflicted repression.</p><p>“Adrenaline changes people. I didn’t realise I had-” John felt Sherlock’s soft whisper more than he’d actually heard it, realising his confession had affected his best friend too. “Sometimes it’s odd to remember that I have a person that I care for in my life.” Sherlock slurred his words only subtly, ostensibly trying to sound as sober and genuine as he could. No time for theatrics now. No backing orchestra of the beating pulse of adrenaline and the harmonies of pride. Just silence. Honest truthful silence. “I miss you. Constantly.”</p><p>John felt himself immediately sobering up, his heart was pounding in his chest, blocking his throat. He knew he was staring at Sherlock with wide-eyes, not quite believing that those four words were just uttered in each other's vicinity. Coming from Sherlock. Directed to him. Silence spread while John fought an inner-battle to unclog his throat. He wetted his lips, a telltale that he was trying to form words that were worthy enough to be uttered. “Me too.” John knew he was an expressive person, his non-verbal behaviour often betraying how he felt, especially to Sherlock. Now, he hoped his aversive characteristic would help him to convey everything he thought and felt to Sherlock. “If it wasn’t for Rosie, I would be back living here within a heartbeat. If you’d allow me.” He didn’t know how much more of this he could handle. It was so intense. The smallness of the room was becoming more apparent with every second. There was nothing left but the two of them. The edges and the clutter of the world fading to white.</p><p>“You can stay. I’ll do anything you need to make the place child friendly. Rosie is always welcome.” Seeing the vulnerability in those green-blue eyes, John realised everything had shifted. The squeezing tension was slowly slipping. While they probably didn’t say everything they should’ve, the intangible difference between them was closing as their lives entwined again. John tried to swallow down the whirlwind of emotions he was feeling all at once. Sherlock’s face showed an expression that was brutally raw and real. True, honest emotions that were often concealed behind a facade of indifference. Suddenly, the dynamics had changed, radically. Sherlock wanted them both here, in his flat. This flat, that was often too dusty, too full of the carcasses of his failed experiments. And John did not care. At that moment, he actually considered leaving his clean and somewhat spacious apartment. To leave behind the small garden Rosie could play in. All for <em>this</em>. Whatever <em>t</em><em>his </em>was.</p><p>His inner turmoil must’ve shown on his face for he thought he saw regret filling in Sherlock’s eyes. Seeing his own turmoil reflected in front of him, he let his mind speak the decision he had already made when he had stood outside 221 B earlier that evening. “Alright.”</p><p>They didn’t say anything for a while after that. Savouring the sweetness while it lasted, not spoiling it with a joke or comment, but just letting it exist. After some time, Sherlock stood up, whirling around in the small space of the kitchen. “You should head to bed. Tomorrow will be a bit hectic.” He left John with that promise of excitement. Sherlock smiled at him ever so slightly that if you were anyone but John you might’ve missed it - before he left the room. Soft footsteps taking the place of conversation. </p>
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<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Gypsies, Tramps and Thieves</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Sherlock and John find themselves in an unwanted tea leaf reading.</p>
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    <p>The following morning, John woke in a familiar but strange bed. Instead of hearing Rosie babbling through the baby monitor, the doctor heard London buzzing outside. For a few seconds or so, John experienced a feeling of pure bliss, like he was on a short break from his normal, mundane life. That feeling, however, did not last very long as the memories of the previous night fought their way through his foggy brain. He tried to sit up, hating his inability to refuse any liquor, and dressed himself quickly to face the music downstairs. </p><p>The smell of coffee filled the air when John descended the stairs and, when he entered the kitchen, he saw that Sherlock had already taken his regular seat at the kitchen table. Like John, he was dressed, sipping coffee while reading London’s news. </p><p>“Morning. Thank you for making coffee - and toast?” Smiling, John sat down, noticing the frying pan with burnt eggs on the kitchen counter. At least Sherlock had tried, but John guessed his distracted brain had ruined his attempt to make proper breakfast. </p><p>“Hungover?” </p><p>“God, my head is pounding.” As was his chest. Staring at the plate of toast in front of him, he forced himself to eat something just to smother the nervous feeling rising in his stomach. “That’s... an awful lot of toast for the two of us. Anything new?” He pointed to the newspaper Sherlock was holding.</p><p>“Yes- that's a good point.” His friend cracked a smirk. “Nothing interesting. Half of this is just ads - the other half is celebrity gossip and sports.” He put it down, “I have no idea how people actually get through reading these every day.” </p><p>John snorted, “At least you enjoy filling out all the puzzles.” He noticed how easily they picked up from where they’d left all those years ago. Bickering over breakfast. Mary would have a field day if she could see them now.</p><p>Placing his hands under his chin, Sherlock focused his attention on John, ignoring his last remark. “Right. Who do we want to interrogate first? The husband sounds insufferable so I suggest we get that out of the way first.”</p><p>“Fine by me. I reckoned you’d already pestered Lestrade to give you the bloke’s address. When I woke up, I had three missed phone calls and several text messages of him complaining you would not fill him in on the details.” Funny how he’d slept through that all. </p><p>“Well, it’s not my fault he can’t fill in the blanks."</p><p>Looking up from his toast again, he saw that Sherlock was watching him more closely. It was then that John was able to see the bags under his eyes. “You, my friend, are definitely a lightweight when it comes to drinking-” <em>D</em><em>on’t mention the drugs, John </em>. “- You didn’t sleep well?”</p><p>“Oh I’m not a lightweight - I just hadn’t eaten in-” He paused, clearly containing himself to answer truthfully. “I just hadn’t eaten that day. Besides, you’re much worse than me.”</p><p>True, John thought, dropping his face in shame. It hadn’t taken him more than just one glass of devilish liquor to start blabbering about his friend’s arse. Disregarding John’s inner turmoil, the detective continued, firing off a long stream of words in a smug tone of voice. “Anyway, the husband, <em> Micheal </em>, lives in a relatively nice house half an hour away. Dug through his Facebook a bit but it’s painful to read him talk about how much he adores his dogs and his car. He is well off. Stuck in some soul-sucking middle management position in a company. Parents that seemed to have made a lot of money back in the ’60s. Everything about him seemed perfectly suburban. The most blank, space-filling person imaginable. His wife just happens to be a sex worker.” </p><p>“I was thinking-“ A sentence that should be avoided around Sherlock, “- maybe we also want to pass by her mother’s place? Yesterday, I noticed that she and Michael were not befriended on Facebook.” It had been quite fascinating and saddening to see how devoted the mother was in finding her missing daughter. Ads, blogs, live sessions, she had done everything in her power to find her daughter Felicity. “Interesting, isn't it? To unfriend your grieving mother-in-law although you both should want to be searching for the same person?”</p><p>The gleam in Sherlock’s eyes returned and John dared to think he looked slightly impressed by his suggestion. “Yes. Definitely. He’s got a clear motive for killing her- oh but it’d draw more attention to unfriend the mother in law. Interesting.” Sherlock stood up, discarding the paper in the bin before tugging on his coat. John did not even have time enough to feel smug about the concealed compliment. If Sherlock got his coat, one just followed suit. Well, John followed suit. </p><p>Often. </p><p>Always. </p><p>Sharing a cab was quite eventful again. Not only because John felt the familiar rush of adrenaline coursing through his veins at the thought of unravelling a mystery, but also because he was very much aware of Sherlock's proximity and how they both had apparently decided to avoid making eye contact during the entire ride. Forty minutes later, they arrived at a nature park full of caravans. The place smelt of burning campfires of grilled food. Mandalas painted on the back of caravans. Sloppily done, but with gorgeous vibrant colours. Scattered around the sometimes colourful wagons stood small, wooden houses. The benches and grills out front reminded John of summer camp, and how he'd been way more open-minded back then than he was now. </p><p>They stopped at house number 4. The small front yard was decorated with angry-looking dwarfs, which John found fascinating to look at. Why anyone would want to greet ugly, frightening goblins every morning was beyond him. But then again, it could be that the doctor in him had just learned to become 'opinionated'.</p><p>Sherlock knocked on the door and, at the same time, John saw a woman disappear behind the curtains upstairs. Faced with Sherlock's Belstaff and John's military stance, it crossed his mind that the poor woman probably thought the feds had arrived. Sure enough, when a small, red-headed woman with curly hair and heavy make-up opened the door, the first thing she said with frightful eyes was, "Is she dead?".  </p><p>“We don’t know. We just want to talk,” Sherlock responded in the most neutral voice he could muster. John thought it was maybe wise for him to intervene before the woman could take offence at anything Sherlock might unintentionally say next. Glancing briefly at his friend, he could literally see how the detective was biting his tongue not to make comments on the decor and how the whole place looked like someone hadn’t gotten over the ’60s. Seeing Sherlock’s inner turmoil, John stepped forward to enter the woman’s house first, patting him on the back in passing. He was trying. He really was.</p><p><em> Well </em> . That was interesting. They entered the living room that was decorated solely in. Well. White. White shiny floor, walls painted white, white furniture, white decorations, and an awful lot of white decorations. To make matters more intriguing , the woman was the proud owner of three <em> white  </em>chihuahuas. John turned around to raise his brow at Sherlock, who turned around to mutter to him, “John Lennon fans presumably.”</p><p>“Right. We’re sorry to interrupt you like this ma’am.” He felt himself shift in Captain mode too easily. “It’s fine my boy,” the older woman’s voice sounded way too soft to fit the stereotype. “Call me Malina. D'you lovely lads want some tea? Something stronger perhaps?” She nervously shuffled towards the kitchen, straigtening her white blouse as she went.</p><p>“That’d be lovely, thank you. The tea, that is.” John called after her retreating form. </p><p>“Please, make yourself comfortable,” Malina shouted from the kitchen. John sat himself down in one of the big, fluffy, plastic-covered chairs at the dinner table, hearing Sherlock shuffle behind him. He also quickly found out that there was a fourth chihuahua hidden under there. “Sorry,” he muttered after hearing the animal shriek because John had hit it with the chair. “Oh, that’s alright, dear. Timbo likes to hide underneath that chair. He should know better by now.” He frowned again at that. Did the woman have eyes in her back? Taking a small intake of breath, John pursed his lips at the thought of how the hell they would begin to question a mother about her missing daughter’s hassling activities. </p><p>When Malina came back, setting the tea down, John noted she used tea leaves instead of bags. He regarded the interesting texture suspiciously, not looking up when he heard Sherlock’s low baritone voice interrupt the silence. “What’s your relationship like with your son in law?”</p><p>The woman turned to Sherlock with a horrid look on her face, the deep lines on her face tainting her features. "I don't have a son in law." She turned her attention to John then, who was still eyeing the tea suspiciously out of the corner of his eye. Malina carefully placed the cups on the table, gesturing to Sherlock to take a seat. "Please, my dear. The vibe you're giving off is tremendously nerve-racking." Sighing, she sat down across from him, placing Timbo on her lap who was staring at John very distrustfully.</p><p>"I already know why you are here and I will tell you, I can handle anything you need to tell me." She took a sip of her tea and John followed her example. </p><p>"It has come to our understanding that your missing daughter, Felicity, was - <em>is </em>- married to Michael Matthew." John's voice sounded steady, calm. "Can you tell us anything about their relationship and your relationship with him?"</p><p>“Or anything about his character - or <em>vibe </em>,” Sherlock added as a subtle dig while sitting down, making one corner of John’s mouth tug up. </p><p>Malina stared at Sherlock for a few minutes before returning her attention to John. "He is scared and extremely confused, but happy you're back in his life."</p><p>Wait. <em>What? </em>  How did it happen that John was constantly surrounded by make-believe mindreaders?  John cleared his throat and pursed his lips, "Care to tell us anything about this Matthew figure?" Malina smiled fondly at him before she responded, which he found oddly disturbing. "Matthew is a  <em> Gorger </em>, someone who is not from our community. Therefore, Felicity and Matthew are not married and Matthew is not my son in law." She returned to her tea, before adding, "But of course, you two know yourself that there are other ways of being married to one another. One doesn't need an official document, a ring, or a blessing from one's mother. Sometimes, just being in each other's aura and mind is enough."</p><p>Sherlock and John both furrowed their brow, and the doctor pleasantly pretended not to hear her insinuate there was something ‘going on’ between him and the detective, listening intently to Sherlock’s follow-up question. “Well, what did you think of him? Or the two of them together?”</p><p>"Michael is an underdog," she said, flatly. "Reformed Christian. At least, he was raised to be one. Suppressed by his father and his uncle. I believe he still holds a management position in their family business. When I met Michael, I knew he was a sweet boy, but years and years of being dogmatised changed him. One way to take back control was by controlling and dominating the people that were closest to him. Felicity in particular." Malina tried to make direct eye-contact with Sherlock before she continued, "If you believe that he is behind her disappearance, then you are sadly mistaken. Michael wouldn't hurt a fly." Sighing, she let Timbo jump off her lap. "Felicity is a very open-minded girl who so happens to enjoy life. Her spirit drives her to meet dangerous people. She is very keen on everything spiritual, something that is perpendicular to the Christian belief. I don't know who took her, but I believe she was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."</p><p>“I’m not sure it was her spirit that drove her to meet dangerous people.” Sherlock deadpanned, drumming his fingers on his now empty teacup. “What aspects of spirituality was she interested in? Do you know if she was in contact with like-minded people?” There had to be a connection between her and the church. Seeing the detective mulling over Malina’s words, John knew he didn’t even entertain the possibility this was a red herring. Something seemed off. Something in the thread of London was being tugged at, and Felicity was the loose string.</p><p>"You're on the right track, my boy. Give me your teacup," she nodded at the empty cup in front of Sherlock. "Felicity enjoys anything spiritual, mostly nature-based. I believe she joined a group of old ladies practising periodic rituals. Nothing harming, mind you. All in the spirit of Mother Nature, of course." Squinting at Sherlock's cup, she continued, "I met them, they seem quite lovely. They haven't seen her since, unfortunately." She quickly glanced at John's teacup. "Finished, dear?" Reluctantly, John handed over his cup too, realising too late that they'd both fallen in her trap to accept her tea. </p><p>It struck John as odd that Malina kept referring to her daughter in the present tense, and he felt bold enough to point it out to the woman who was peering at their dried-up leaves. "You believe she is on the run?"</p><p>Malina looked up from studying the two cups in her hand. "No, dear. Felicity does not run. No, I believe someone took her, but I have no proof of it. Nor have I seen or heard anything that might lead me to her whereabouts. And believe me, I do pay attention," she looked back at the dried tea leaves on the bottom of the ceramic. "Do you boys see how perfectly aligned these leaves are? Here, compare them to mine." She shoved the two cups towards them, placing her own in the middle.</p><p>John didn't see shit. To him, they were just dried, wet tea leaves that left a bitter taste in his mouth. Malina smiled at them before continuing. "You-" she nodded her head towards Sherlock, "- should be more careful. You do not need mental stimulation in the form of chemicals designed to be addictive. You already have what you need. Don't waste it by maintaining this indifferent facade. Caring is the best advantage you can have."</p><p>"And you, my dear," she smiled sadly at John, "-have to take action before it is too late. <em>Again </em>. Society cannot prescribe whom we must befriend, trust or even love."</p><p>"Charming." Was all Sherlock said in reply, cracking a fleeting smile. John, however, felt his throat constrict again. Images of Mary and him floating in front of his eyes. How she'd laughed at his boldness when he asked her out of the first time, how she'd stared wide-eyed at his failed marriage proposal, how she had died, taking the bullet that was intended for his dear friend. His best friend. The other person he could not live without. </p><p>"Precisely," she said, having seen something flicker across his eyes at that very moment. "You're not a shy, ignorant man-"</p><p>"We'll be in touch." Sherlock stood up abruptly, leaving the caravan. John followed him after apologising for the detective’s poor manners, feeling grateful Sherlock had gotten them out of that peculiar situation.</p><p>"Well. that was interesting."</p><p>"Yeah, I suppose it was. Thank you for getting us out of there." Sometimes, John was extremely grateful for his friend's antisocial behaviour. Sometimes. Sherlock probably thought the crazy woman had uttered a bunch of none-sense, wasting their time. To John, she'd hit a nerve, thousands of nerves to be exact. All of them spiralling through his body, affecting the lock he'd put on all his thoughts and feelings he did not dare to face. "She was right, you know. About you. You can't run away from anything by using drugs." He let out a small, nervous laugh while following Sherlock to the cab and scrunching up his face in irritation at seeing the detective easily hail a fucking cab. </p><p>"Not an addict just a user," Sherlock said a little softer than usual as he slipped in the taxi. He quickly said the location of the police station, it was a half an hour ride away. "Do you believe her? Her whole spirituality thing. Seems to have caught you off guard."</p><p>"I am not a superstitious man, Sherlock", he said, ignoring the poignant fact that he'd talked to Mary's ghost for months after her passing. "But, somehow, she was also right about me." John glanced at his partner. "I just want to believe that I'm finally taking matters into my own hands. By, for instance, joining you on this chase -" More softly, he added, looking out of the window, "- and by moving in with you. <em>Again </em>." </p><p>Clearing his throat, he continued in a louder tone of voice, "What are your thoughts about the girl's connection to the church? Those ladies, do you want to investigate them further?" John had a bad feeling that this was just 'the tip of the iceberg'. A damn big iceberg hidden in some occult society in London. Or in a goddamn trailer park with terrifying looking goblins. And Chihuahuas.</p><p>"Yes. Definitely. First, we investigate the boy, possibly the husband but I doubt he'll say anything interesting. He seems to want to sever ties to whatever is going on. He mentioned her only once when she went missing on Facebook- he's since been posting. Also, he sounds dull and I don't think he's worth the hassle." </p><p>As they pulled up to the police station, a small smirk formed on Sherlock's face. "Obviously, I take it that the police have failed to do anything of importance and have just detained him for the time being. Wouldn't be surprised if they hadn't even done that. So. We can scare him a bit. Just enough to put him on edge." Returning Sherlock’s smirk, John’s authoritative side peaked out, surmising he’d be perfect for this.</p><p>They entered the interrogation room and John noticed that the boy they’d captured last night was in fact, a boy. A lanky figure with black, messy hair and a narrow face. For just a second, John wondered whether Sherlock had looked like that when he’d been a teenager. The boy followed their movements with hawk eyes, expecting aggressive tones and meaningless probing. “Alright lad,” John said as he sat down across from the boy, putting his hands flat down on the table. “Here is what we’re going to do to get you out of here. First, no no no- let me finish,” the boy closed his mouth indignantly at John’s imposing tone. “First, you’re going to explain who you are and what you were doing there last night.” </p><p>“And second?” The boy’s sounded smug. <em>Little fucker </em>. </p><p>Let’s keep that in suspense, shall we?” John said as he smiled tightly, secretly enjoying this. Sherlock stood a pace behind him, trying to keep the smirk from his face while he came closer to take a seat next to him. The doctor was fixated on the scarification of the glaring boy. It was done so recently. Why would a teenager want to join an occult? It’s not exactly like joining a gang. There would be no acquired respect. That was unless they had branches - but he didn’t want to get too eager too soon.</p><p>The boy remained silent for a long time, alternating his stares between John and Sherlock. When he finally opened his mouth, quickly making eye-contact with Sherlock before averting his eyes, John was relieved. Maybe he did not have to play this the hard way. </p><p>“Is that weirdo not gonna say anythin’?” John gritted his teeth. Oh, he definitely was gonna play this the hard way. </p><p>“Trust me, kid. You don’t want to go there. You just don’t want to piss me off. You want to avoid that. At. All. Cost.” He said tightly.</p><p>A small blush formed on the boy’s cheeks, maybe because he was angry or maybe because he was scared. John hoped for the latter. </p><p>“But that’s what you’re doing, right? Good cop,” he nodded at Sherlock, “Bad Cop,” before glancing at John.</p><p>“Who said one of us had to be good?” Sherlock eased back in his chair. Cheap threats weren’t a good look on him. He would leave that to John. If Sherlock wanted to freak the kid out he could tell him everything he knew about him. Picking out every detail he could find to paint a picture of his life within seconds. Instead, his friend gave John the spotlight for a moment, not breaking his stare from the young boy’s face.</p><p>“And we’re definitely not ’cops’. You’re not starring in an American gangster movie. This,” John pointed his finger at the table. “Is real life. And you better start talking before that life takes a worse turn.” <em> God </em>. Was it going to be like this when Rosie would be at that age? </p><p>The boy audible swallowed. Poor kid hadn’t even seen the worst of him. Or of Sherlock. “I-. I went to church.” John remained silent, staring directly in the boy’s face who tried desperately to avoid looking at him. “W-when I came back. I saw you standing at the memorial. I thought you were going to kill me.”</p><p>"If we wanted you dead, you'd be dead." The flatness to Sherlock’s voice made it sound more threatening than if he was angry. Moriarty had said something similar to him once, John recalled and he shivered slightly at Sherlock’s words that were uttered in his low, baritone voice. This demeanour was known to John, viscous, practical, cold, resolute. If he hadn’t known the man behind the words, he would be a tiny bit scared. The stranger in front of them, though, had turned pale, gaping at Sherlock with fear in his eyes. "Why would you go to church in the middle of the night?" There was probably a corny have you got something to confess line in there.</p><p>“I- was looking for someone. But, but, there was no one there when I arrived-” John knew the boy was lying through his teeth.</p><p>Without breaking eye-contact, Sherlock cut him off. “You’re straightening your posture. Your eyes aren’t fixed anymore and you’re glancing around. I can tell when you’re lying. So I’ll ask again. What were you doing?” </p><p>Deadpanned, the boy whispered, "I was looking for Selina. We'd promised to meet each other at the Church. When I arrived, she was not there. Instead, there was- " he took a deep breath before continuing on. "I saw someone painting Jesus." </p><p>If it weren't for the circumstances, that line sounded at least a bit comical to John. Who the hell was this Selina? "You mean the statue?" Both him and Sherlock had seen the bloody hands.</p><p>"Ye-es. 'Though some might believe otherwise, Jesus definitely was not there." The boy dared to roll his eyes at them. </p><p>"What about your mark? The one on the back of your neck. What does it mean?" John felt he was getting impatient. He saw the boy touch the scarification they all three knew was there. "This is something between Selina and me."</p><p>"Touch extreme isn't it?" Sherlock had mentioned it was a symbol of some sort, which could only mean that it must have some significance to both of them. Especially if he was willing to have his skin carved to have it. "What does it represent? Who did it?"</p><p>Sighing, he continued, "Don't know why you want to know this. It has nothing to do with what I've seen." </p><p>"We'll be the judge of that, kid," John said, smiling tightly. </p><p>"Selina joined some sort of association or club, whatever. I wanted to impress her, so I got one with her." <em>Fuck </em>. The boy probably didn't even know what that tattoo meant. "Try to explain "association" to us, will you?" John knew he sounded like an irritated parent at this point. He did not know what it was, but this kid made the blood under his skin crawl. </p><p>"I don't know, some ladies worshipping Nature Mom and brewing perfume." Good god, this kid was a fucking imbecile. Rubbing his hands in his eyes, he groaned. "Have you any idea where Selina might be right now?"</p><p>He swallowed before answering John, "No. She lives in some trailer park outside London. Her parents probably took her phone, 'cause she did not respond to my texts."</p><p>Pushing his chair back, Sherlock stood up, smugness practically radiating off of him. “I think that’s all we need.” John knew that look. It meant ‘I was right. This will be good’, meaning that the tosser was probably going to expose a network of dangerous occult. Precisely what he needed to satisfy his cravings.</p><p>Sherlock managed to pull some strings to get the kid out. In a day or two, just to spite him for being a bit of a prick. The hypocrisy of that didn’t deter John. "Christ, you can't just rush off like that anymore without telling me where we're going." Sherlock had practically dashed off out of the police station and John tried to keep up with the erratic man. While hailing a cab, John noticed that the smug look on the detective's face had not faltered. "God, you already solved this one, didn't you?" John also noticed that he used an awful lot of religious swearing words lately.</p><p>"Mmm, not yet. The best part is yet to come. So. We need to find Felicity. Find a member of the occult. Pull on the thread. We probably need to start looking for Wych Elms." Of course, it wouldn't be that easy. She could be placed absolutely anywhere. In order to find her, they needed to find an inner member. Someone who's willing - or stupid enough - to help them find the location. </p><p>"Right. So you can't complain I don't tell you where we're going, you can decide."</p><p>"Wait. Hold on." John pulled on the detective's elbow to turn him around before entering the cab. "<em> I </em>  get to decide?" He let out a small laugh. "Who are you, and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?" Seeing the man's eye twinkle, realisation dawned upon him. "Goddamn, you." He looked at how he was gripping Sherlock's arm and then quickly decided to drop it. <em>Sherlock knew </em>. He'd already decided where they were going. He just wanted John to confirm him. "You want to stake out tonight at the trailer park?" Or maybe he just wanted to test John's stupidity. Both were high possibilities.</p><p>"Perfect answer."</p><p>They made a stop back at the flat to gather everything they needed. They had about 2-3 hours to kill before it would be dark. Funny how fast the day goes. They didn't need much. Nothing that would weigh them down. Most of the stake-outs were spent trying not to get horribly bored. They needed to document everything they found, so a charged phone was all they needed. No need to lug anything around and if things go south they could always call Lestrade. Not that that was ideal as that would mean they would be more exposed to whomever they were observing. </p><p>"Say 'hi' to Daddy. Hi Rosie, I am here." Facetiming was not something John preferred to do, especially not with a hyperactive toddler. Sometimes, John had to video-call his patients, who showed him the most unattractive parts of their body that were surely not supposed to be transferred by means of technology, let alone face-to-face. But, as a doctor, he was doomed to endure it all, being a little bit relieved he was watching them online rather than offline. "I am terribly sorry, Molly. I promise you I will be back tomorrow." He was such a horrible father. He knew it. "Want to say 'hi' to Sherlock?" To be honest, John did not know whether he was saying that to Rosie or to Molly.</p><p>Sherlock poked his head into frame, waving a little before he lay back down on the couch with his eyes closed. He seemed to be more distracted than normal which distressed John a bit. The doctor wondered if Sherlock ever thought back at the woman’s words and whether they were lodged inside his head like they were in John’s. </p><p>Ending the call, he looked again at Sherlock who was still lying on the sofa, brooding. "Well, thank heavens it isn't a weekday. I owe Molly so much already."</p><p>Right. Silence. He could do this. John had countless times before. But the thing was, John was not necessarily a silent man, especially not when one ought to be preparing for a stakeout. Sherlock, however, always retreated into his own mind to go over countless possibilities and microscopic details.  </p><p>"Shall we order in?" </p><p>Silence. </p><p>"Right, I'll order Thai." </p><p>Silence. </p><p>"You want some tea?"</p><p>Still, no movement nor sound was coming from the couch's direction. </p><p>"Want to go over the details with me?" John knew he was sort of nagging now.</p><p>Sherlock exhaled rather loudly, opening his eyes and responding a bit harshly. “What’s there to go over?” </p><p>“When the mother-in-law said ‘you have to take action before it’s too late’ what did that mean to you? Clearly what she said struck a nerve. It’s just a bit open-ended.”</p><p>Aha. There it was, John thought. Sherlock was, after all, a little bit bothered by the woman's remarks that afternoon. Or he just wanted to piss off John. <em> Another bloody toddler to handle. </em> </p><p>John sighed unevenly, sitting up straighter in his own chair while he regarded his friend. What had the woman meant by that? The only prominent, very salient thing in John's mind had been moving back to 221B Baker Street. How he desperately wanted his old life back. And, maybe, something more than just that. The only problem with that thought was that he did not dare to think or dwell on these desires, let alone express them to the person in front of him. He was just not sure to get any type of 'feeling' across without setting the detective off. Especially not in a sober state. </p><p>"I am honestly not sure, Sherlock." <em> Liar </em>. "I think she was just upset and wanted to set us off a little bit. And you're the one to talk. You actually fled after she instructed you to use your fucking heart instead of narcotics. Why do you still find it so fucking difficult to care.” John did not know what set him off in that exact moment, only that he definitely needed to quit fucking swearing. He had a kid, for fuck's sake.</p><p>“I didn’t flee- that’s just how I leave. Same way I left the police station today. I wasn’t offended because I’m not—”. He fell silent again.</p><p>"I'm sorry, mate. I-” John pursed his lips, “Listen, I-”. This was so much more difficult than he thought it would ever be. "I just know you care. You do. Yesterday..." He shifted in his seat so that he was sitting bent forward. "Yesterday was a good example of you showing me that you care. I just think-" He rubbed his eyes, trying desperately to force the words out. "I just wish you could let yourself go as easily as you did yesterday. It would be so much easier for you. Hell, for everyone." See, he was a doctor after all. And sometimes, doctors had to face difficult situations in which they had to find the right words, without scaring off squeamish patients. Not that Sherlock was a patient. Not precisely.</p><p>Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on anything but John when he responded, “I know it would be easier. I get that John. It’s frustrating.”</p><p>“I’m trying.”</p><p>John knew what he meant by that. He'd seen the detective struggle through painstaking realisations that he was, in fact, human. A human who sometimes had to deal with losing control of the inevitable. He'd seen Sherlock broken at the loss of their friendship and at losing Mary. He'd seen Sherlock smash an empty coffin meant for the person who mattered to him. Who'd saved his life.</p><p>He cared. </p><p>Not in obvious manners or words, but in intrusive, derailed actions that caused the detective to jump off a building to save the people close to him.  </p><p>John stood up from his seat and sat himself down on the coffee table in front of the couch, hoping he would be able to reassure Sherlock. "I know." He paused and let out a small breath. "I'm sorry".</p><p>"I'm sorry too." </p><p>Somehow, John had the honest feeling Sherlock meant it. That he was sorry for the way he’d changed John's life so completely, into one of uncertainty and danger. For just a moment, Sherlock looked up at him and John tried to swallow down the words that were stuck in his throat. Unsure of what to say, John chose to say nothing. He just kept looking at the man in front of him, seeing things he'd already seen before but had never acknowledged. </p><p>Being allowed to be involved Sherlock's life had consumed him. Extraordinary heights and infuriating lows. The life he'd shared with the detective had been consuming, but he'd loved it, craved for it, and he still did. After all these years, John still found it difficult to describe them, their relationship. The meaning of their partnership was something subtle, a rich uniqueness that did not let itself be categorized or even analysed. <em> It is what it is. </em>  </p><p>"You. Me. It is just what it is."</p><p>There was always this silent acknowledgement that their relationship was not entirely normal. It would never be a standard friendship. Echoing the words Sherlock had once spoken, John thought he couldn’t have put it better. </p><p>And oh god. John cared for him. </p><p>He didn’t dare figure out if that was platonic or romantic but it didn’t matter. He allowed himself to admit that. In the stillness of the moment, the calm before the storm, he realised he always had. He wanted to spend his life with the infuriating man. He had to. That’s the only way he could picture his future. </p><p>At that moment, John saw something flicker across the detective's face that he could not yet identify. He was not sure whether it was a reaction to something that he'd said or because Sherlock suddenly realised something about the case. </p><p>
  <em> The case. </em>
</p><p>Right. </p><p>The doctor scraped his throat and rubbed the sweat of his hands. "You reckon it's time to go?"</p><p>Snapping out of whatever trance he’d been in, Sherlock jumped up, advancing towards the door. </p><p>“Yes, definitely.” </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Hot N Cold</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>John and Sherlock sort of cheat death again and, this time, Sherlock does act on his feelings.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Heed the tags: the rating has gone up for this chapter. Quoting my dear friend and co-writer kamala, this chapter contains 'poetic porn'. I hope you enjoy it :)</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When night fell, everything looked remarkably more eerie on the camp site. Scattered light was hard to find as it came only from a street lamp adjacent to the place. Now, the doctor and the detective had to find a place to hide, which was seemingly more difficult than they first thought it would be.</p><p>"I don't know, Sherlock. Don't you think someone will recognise us here? What are we exactly waiting for?" Eventually, John found himself cramped underneath an old shed that was used to store firewood and, to his dismay, was also a hiding place for teenagers smoking cannabis. <em> God, the smell. </em>The place was small, far too small for two people to hide comfortably. </p><p>John was sitting on his knees beside the detective, peering into the dark and knowing he was going to regret being in this position tomorrow. Sherlock had chosen the exact spot because it gave them a perfect view of Selina’s house, the smallest one in the row. Nothing had happened for the past two hours and John felt the cold slowly seep and ingrain itself in his bones while the detective next to him appeared to be unaffected by the dire circumstances of the cold night. </p><p>“John-,” Sherlock sounded agitated, his face unreadable in the moonless night. “They know something’s going on. They’re not exactly trying to hide from us. The email, the open church door, the graffiti. They want us to <em> see </em>.” It was just probability. They might not even see anything exciting. It’d be incredibly anticlimactic, for Sherlock standards. </p><p>"How the hell do they - whoever they are - know that we are here tonight?" John hissed, becoming gradually frustrated at being out in the cold, freezing air, hating he left his incredible green curry for this. "What are we looking for?" He inquired again, not caring that he sounded like a small child because his muscles started to constrict painfully. </p><p>"Considering we've been interrogating people all day- had someone nearly arrested yesterday - it's not that far a leap.” Sherlock drawled, his eyes still focused on the house. “We're looking for any activity or movement, just- anything out of the ordinary."</p><p>"Out of the ordinary, you say. Everything here is out of the fucking ordinary." John was shivering uncontrollably at this point, grinding his teeth and cursing under his breath why London’s criminal class always had to be active at night. He grazed his right hand over the SIG he'd hidden in the inside pocket of his coat just before he left 221B. "We've been here for over 2 fucking hours and nothing has happened yet." His teeth were chattering and he feared he’d have a case of bronchospasm if he’d stay there any minute longer. </p><p>John regarded Sherlock for a moment, noticing the other’s still and contemplating posture, his eyes practically gleaming in the pitch dark night like a jaguar hunting its prey. What was Sherlock thinking? He had not moved even an inch, only ever slightly averting his attention to respond to John’s questions. </p><p>"So,” his voice did not sound steady because he was shivering uncontrollably, “-you and Molly..." He was bored. Considering it was already passing midnight, John was dying for some action. He’d forgotten how boring stake-outs were. The start of them anyway. Half the battle was not being tempted to just walk away. </p><p>"Me and Molly. What are you implying, <em> John,</em>" Sherlock scoffed softly, carding a hand through his dark mess of curls. "We're not <em> together</em>. I thought you of all people wouldn't like to assume who's 'involved' with who. Especially when you get so offended about it." </p><p>John snorted, "Offended? Why would I get offended? I just thought you two had confessed your love to one another when we visited your sister for tea." The desperate, broken look on Sherlock's face when he'd spoken to Molly was ingrained in John's memory. John had seen that face in the mirror on two occasions. After Sherlock had jumped off fucking Barts and when Mary had just died in his arms. The doctor decided not to mention that for he knew it wouldn’t do them any good. </p><p>“It’s complicated. I don’t-“ the detective sighed, clearly still unaffected by the cold air, his answer interrupted when the living room in Selina’s home was slowly illuminated. The lighting wasn’t even enough to suggest anything electric. “Candles.”</p><p>"You reckon she used the fat from her boyfriend's hands?" <em> Or of your complicated, fat ass. </em>John meant it as a joke, but he remembered seeing the blood on the statue. Seeing blood was never promising. Or to Sherlock, it actually was.</p><p>Sherlock laughed for the first time that evening, oblivious to the fact that it was massively inappropriate to do in this sort of situation, even though that knowledge never stopped him before. “We just need to find <em> something </em>that will lead up to Felicity. Though I’m not sure she’ll have made it this long.” The blood on the hands was probably hers. It was put on that statue relatively fresh so she couldn’t have been harmed too long ago. They may have time if they hadn’t killed her.</p><p>"Poor woman." John did not know whether he was referring to Felicity or to Felicity's mother. </p><p>Suddenly, three shadows appeared in the living room, gathering together. They had not seen the figures enter the building, so that was quite odd. John wondered whether it was possible they had used a back entrance to the building. The shadows all moved around in the same pattern, some growing larger as they moved away from the source of light. "They're dancing, aren't they?"</p><p>“Obviously.” </p><p>Shivers ran down John’s spine. Not out of fear, but out of excitement he so deeply craved. </p><p>“We have remain in our position. We can’t let them notice us until something substantial-.”</p><p>"I find it hard to believe that they might notice us, Sherlock, given the fact that we’re sitting here in this fucking shed, hiding between wood and used cannabis sticks." John’s temper was dangerously deteriorating. He noticed that all three figures moved towards the window, then stopped. The candles flickered briefly before another shadow appeared next to the group.  "I hate it that we do not know what the hell they're doing. For all we know, they are sacrificing somebody right now, severing and brewing hands."</p><p>“Want to get closer?” Sherlock suggested, his vocal timbre sending shivers through John’s spine. His hands were steepled in front of his face and the way he’d uttered his suggestion sounded as if he was testing John’s bravery. “Mmm... we could hide behind another caravan, or disguise ourselves as <em> gnomes </em>for all I care.”</p><p>John forced out a slightly irritated laugh at that, feeling somewhat offended at the thought Sherlock might think he wouldn’t dare to enter witch-territory.  "I am not so sure whether you would make a good impression of a gnome. Unfortunately." He nudged Sherlock, noticing the bastard was way hotter than John currently was.<em>Tosser</em>. "I think you'd be more successful if you were to ring their doorbell and present yourself as a new member of their severing fat arses cult." </p><p>Sherlock scoffed, surprisingly not moving away to break the contact between himself and his companion. John still couldn't see his face in the gloom of the shed, which made him feel uncomfortable and unnoticed. </p><p>As the shadows disappeared one by one, Sherlock bowed his head to whisper into the doctor’s ear, "We need to get into the house. We need to find anything that has to do with the girl. Stay close."</p><p>Sherlock was the first to get out of the shed, and when John followed, he felt his whole body ache from the uncomfortable crouching. They crept around the small building, the soft pattering of feet and a rapidly increasing heart beat was all he could hear. When they approached the back of the house, Sherlock rummaged in his pockets to extract a paper clip. Rolling his eyes behind Sherlock’s back, John thought once again that the detective would’ve made a very effective criminal, which should probably be an unnerving thought for anyone associated with him. </p><p>John marvelled at the ease by which Sherlock picked the lock. Within seconds, his slender fingers had unlocked the five pin tumbler lock attached to the door, allowing them inside. He followed Sherlock's slender form with quiet, gentle steps, feeling his side pocket to make sure he could easily grab his gun if needed. </p><p>Venturing further into the house, the smell of burned meat and smoke took John by surprise. It almost seemed as if someone was barbecuing in the house. He followed in Sherlock’s footsteps, first ending up in a dimly-lit kitchen that was scattered with an abundant amount of flowers, leaves and what looked like weed. John was not familiar with the science of plant biology or phytology or whatever. To him, they were all just plants. He peered out in the dark hallway, noticing that the door to the living room was thankfully closed. His heart was racing now, hammering in his chest and throat. No sounds were emerging from the adjacent room and John turned around just in time to see that Sherlock had set foot in the direction of a small flight of wooden stairs. </p><p>They made their way up them, ending up in another dark room that led into a smaller one. Sherlock opened the only door they could find, determined in his actions. Peering over the detective’s shoulder, John immediately noticed the repugnant smell of copper and rotten flesh. Shit, Sherlock-”</p><p>“Light. Now.”</p><p>It was drying by the time they found it. Placed on a desk on top of a newspaper. Pale. Discoloured. The blood completely dried out. Looking closer, John saw that it was cut bluntly with a dull blade. </p><p>Who the fuck leaves a severed hand on a desk? Not even the decency to put it in the fridge- </p><p>Sherlock had already pulled out his phone, photographing everything in a rapid fashion, causing his coat to billow behind him.  “Search the whole room. <em>Fast</em>.” </p><p>It was a study, covered in books and scrap paper. John flicked through them, scouring for anything useful. On the wall opposite of the desk were notes plastered to the wall. Newspaper articles, maps, photographs. A few of them painfully standing out, “Sherlock, look.”</p><p>John noticed a photograph of the girl they knew as Felicity, next to her was a photograph of a girl having the same facial features as the missing girl: brown long hair and brown eyes. She looked much younger than Felicity and John estimated the girl was not older than 20.</p><p>Underneath their pictures, Latin words were scribbled in atrocious bad grammar. Not that John’s Latin was superb, but he’d been forced to study the language to some degree. </p><p>“‘<em> She who is admired shall descend to goddess nature’ </em> ” Or something like that. “Weird.” Trailing his eyes over the wall, John faltered when two familiar faces stared back at him from behind the remains of two old newspapers. The pictures were clearly taken from the print media more than three years ago and, to John’s vexed opinion, did not portray him well. <em> Goddammit</em>. On the back of the first photograph stood a date, place and time. “<em>Fuck</em>. They knew we were coming.”</p><p>“I already told you that.” Sherlock suddenly froze, his eyes focused on the deserted hallway. “John, if you jumped out a window do you think you could keep running while you hit the ground?”</p><p>John did not give him a verbal answer. Instead, he ran to the window, shoved it upwards with incredible force and <em> jumped</em>. </p><p>Just like Sherlock instructed, he intended to start running as soon as he - painfully - felt the ground underneath his hands and feet, but pain shot through his leg when he hit the concrete. Two hands hauled him upwards and pushed him forward. John staggered a little, cursing his damned leg and dashed after Sherlock once he found his footing.</p><p>They passed by their hiding place and jumped over the fence. Well, John tried to jump, but he did not possess Sherlock’s physique. Hands grabbed his then, pulling him over the tall fence. Voices trailed after their retreating forms and John silently cursed their stupidity to have entered such a cursed place.</p><p>They kept running until they were too exhausted to physically move anymore. By that time they were closer to civilians. Safety in numbers. A few people were staring at them when they tried to catch their breath, steadying themselves with their hands on their thighs. John hoped to think their audience had seen stranger things than a pair of men a little roughed up.</p><p>John looked sideways at Sherlock who had a terribly big smirk forming on his lips. Locking eyes, a rush pulsed through him. A nervous, divine buzzing energy that came when one played Russian roulette with his life.</p><p>“John? Are you alright?”</p><p>Still catching his breath, John noticed two things. First, he really should start using the bike again. </p><p>Second, he’d missed the danger terribly.</p><p>Alright. </p><p>Third, Sherlock was fucking <em> captivating </em> to look at.</p><p>The detective was smirking terribly, hunched forward, eyes ablaze, and his hair illegally messed up. John thought it was unfair that someone could look like that after running a few miles, while he himself looked like a red, big, exploded tomato. </p><p>“Yeah- Just. Whatever. That was-” his ineloquent train of words were cut off when a taxi stopped next to Sherlock’s raised hand. </p><p>When they were first crammed somewhat involuntarily inside a shed, now they were sitting closer than necessary in a cab. John noticed Sherlock was practically glowing next to him, the giddy energy coursing through his veins, radiating off him as he was not even trying to hide his pleasure. Although Sherlock was quiet for the entire cab ride, his right leg was bouncing and he tried to capture John’s eye every few seconds. John returned the sentiment completely. They had practically cheated death with every case they had taken on and that high made them both lose every feeling that wasn’t pure impulse and pleasure. Tonight was no exception.</p><p>When they got back into 221B, John didn’t even make it up the stairs before the thrill of it all seemed to grab Sherlock, who stood still facing him, his eyes expressing a nauseating bliss of adrenaline. John swallowed at the predatory look he was giving, backing himself up against the wall as Sherlock cornered him. He could smell the lingering aftershave and John had no time to process what the fuck Sherlock was doing when the distance between them disappeared and Sherlock locked John’s mouth in a death-grip. </p><p>Well-</p><p>That’s- </p><p>I’m not- </p><p>O god.</p><p>John was kissed. Thoroughly. By Sherlock. Who was- Who is-</p><p>John knew he should break it off. Knew this was a <em> fucking bad idea</em>. Although, in that exact moment, he couldn’t really come up with reasons as to why it was such a bad idea to snog his a-sexual best mate? </p><p>Best man? </p><p>Best flatmate? </p><p>They’d sort of cheated death again, so he understood that they had to blow off steam. <em> Was that what they were doing? Blowing off steam? </em></p><p>Apparently, John had to blow off steam too because he pushed Sherlock back against the wall, kissing him fiercely in return. And then he noticed too that - apparently - kissing Sherlock was fucking arousing, and that Sherlock - apparently - wasn’t so a-sexual John and the entire fucking planet thought he was. </p><p>Sherlock cupped his cheek, letting out a soft groan against his chapped lips. John tasted curry and the remains of brandy, and something else he could not identify as Sherlock broke the kiss apart to hurry him upstairs.</p><p>John was literally being dragged up the seventeen narrow steps and he let it all happen, worried that if he waited- if he wasted a single second, they’d start thinking about the consequences of whatever this would be.</p><p>Before rationality could sink in, before he could voice his doubts like - <em> What’s happening? Should we be doing this? How the hell did you learn to kiss like that? </em> - he was hauled inside, being aggressively pushed against the door before he was kissed in a manner that should definitely be illegal. Sherlock’s tongue explored and conquered his mouth, sliding obscenely, erotically against his own. </p><p>
  <em> So that’s what’s it like being kissed by a guy.  </em>
</p><p><em> Well</em>. </p><p>John was being <em> consumed</em>. Sherlock’s posh aftershave filled his nose and his hands roamed preposterously over his shoulders, arms, and chest. He tried to touch him back, but Sherlock captured his arms and pushed them against the wood behind him. So John found himself captured, trapped, and apparently, definitely, absolutely...Not. Straight.</p><p>Blood diverted to his trousers and he was desperate to feel more of the madman in front of him, but he didn’t want to make him uncomfortable. The suddenness of it all was intense. So raw. <em> Christ </em>. Sherlock was so fucking needy. Putting his hands on his shirt while still plundering John’s mouth, Sherlock waited a moment as if to ask for permission. He didn’t need words right now. There was nothing he could say that his body couldn’t convey in a much more intimate way. Sherlock radiated warmth and power, and John never appreciated how perfect he was. As always, he found himself to be like-minded like Sherlock. Both wanted to savour each other forever.</p><p>Eventually, John’s shirt was being pulled off and he felt Sherlock’s hands exploring- no, <em> examining </em> his body. As if Sherlock was memorising John’s squamous cells one by one. The intensity of it all made him gasp and cry out when Sherlock let him know he wanted to advance to the next stage: making sure John’s prefrontal cortex was momentarily occupied. Years and years of unresolved tension, frustration and balancing on <em> it is what it is </em> , John decided that from that moment on, they were <em> this </em>. </p><p>Sherlock was not just his flatmate. </p><p>Nor just his best friend. </p><p>Nor just his best man.</p><p>Sherlock was just <em>this</em>. </p><p>He was a part of John that could never be ignored nor detained. A part that would forever spiral around him, move him, aggravate him and arouse him to his core. </p><p>And John. </p><p>John was not gay. </p><p>John was just simply - </p><p><em> His </em>. </p><p>So the spur-of-the-moment conclusion was that John wanted him too. </p><p>Desperately. </p><p>Irrevocably. </p><p>He placed his feet between Sherlock’s legs and hooked it behind his left ankle. With a quick, hard pull, Sherlock staggered sideways, giving John room to take over. He pushed Sherlock against the wall next to the door, attacking the skin underneath his right ear in a desperate attempt to figure out what madness tasted like. “Tell me to stop and I will.”</p><p>John interpreted Sherlock’s silence as an approval to devour him further. “Good choice.” His voice was shaded with longing and he found that they were both floating through a world without the confinement of overthinking. John wanted to unravel Sherlock. To stop his brilliant brain from working by putting him in a hazy state of bliss. Sherlock looked perfectly obscene. Eyes animalistic and piercing, hair a mess, his pale cheeks and long neck flushed with colour. The detective tilted his head to the side, a further invitation for John to explore.</p><p>They were doomed, John realised. They were going to cross so many boundaries of which John thought he would only cross when fully inebriated, but somehow that only added to the thrill of it. John was going to return Sherlock the courtesy of utterly devouring him. While he bit and sucked the pale skin of his throat, he wedged his thigh between Sherlock’s legs, making absolutely clear to the detective where this was going if they did not stop, right now.</p><p>“Floor. Couch. Bed. Decide. <em> Now </em>.” He said, a bit startled at how fierce his own voice sounded.</p><p>Sherlock’s only response was one word and John felt him shudder underneath his demanding touches. “Couch.” </p><p>“Good choice, again.”</p><p>He grabbed Sherlock’s blouse and yanked him forward, turning him around and pushing him towards the couch. When Sherlock’s calves were touching the couch’s arm, he pushed again so that Sherlock fell with his back over the end. “Your favourite pose,” he commented before he jumped on the lanky figure, earning a small huff from the man underneath him. Bold and extremely turned on, John opened Sherlock’s trousers so that he could touch him underneath. John was uncomfortably hard by now and, by the feel of it, so was Sherlock, who was melting like butter under the secure control of John. It was more than a little concerning how much he seemed to enjoy this, thrusting his hips up a little, aching for friction. Patience, John surmised, definitely wasn’t Sherlock’s strong suit. </p><p>“Like this?” John moved his hand the way he liked it himself, using long, languid strokes that were alternated by quick, hurried ones. John thrusted his hips forward, desperate for some friction too. “Thought you would be way more talkative than this,” he smirked while biting his way from Sherlock’s neck to his mouth. He was going to give the man a hickey at this rate, marking him to know he was his. John was not going to last long if Sherlock kept looking like he was on fire, gasping for air, his pale skin flushed deliciously.</p><p>Sherlock bit down hard on his lip to hold back a moan, his eyes fluttering close for a moment as if he just wanted to focus on the sensation. “Please,” the tiny word felt jumbled and the detective’s cheeks burned brighter, opening his eyes to lock John’s in a submissive and so impatient haze. </p><p>“That’s it.” John yanked his hand away only to get the rest of Sherlock’s clothes off. He sat up, pausing a moment to get his frantic heart under control. Looking at Sherlock, he felt like he was the predator who’d killed his prey before the hunt. “You’re sure?” If they were going to do this, they could never go back again to what they had been before. If it wasn’t already too late for that.</p><p>“John. I <em> will </em>beg,” Sherlock was serious. “Olive oil- I don’t have any lube just-” A soft chuckle escaped John as he realised Sherlock really couldn’t talk now. Fumbling over words in a way he hadn’t for a long while, so flustered because he couldn’t bear to wait a moment longer.</p><p>“Go grab it.” It sounded like an order, but John didn’t fucking care. He was acting on pure instinct, suppressing all rational thoughts. Sherlock literally jumped off the sofa, giving John time to remove the rest of his clothing. He followed Sherlock to the kitchen, smiling fondly at his frantic search. “Top shelf, left is where I left it.” <em> A very long time ago. </em></p><p>The primitive part of John's brain wanted to take and ravish Sherlock over the kitchen table. Right. <em> There.</em> The table they'd sat around numerous times before, eating, discussing, <em> avoiding </em>. But Sherlock had dashed off, going around the opposite of the table to circumvent John, ending up lying sprawled across the sofa again. John approached him carefully, suddenly quite aware of the absurdity of it all. Here he was, naked, about to have sex with a person about whom he'd thought did not even felt the urges normal people normally felt. Not that John considered himself to be normal, though. He approached the detective, who looked at him so fucking wantonly. "That looks good on you." He tried to sound smug, relaxed, but it came out a lot hoarser than he'd planned.</p><p>They way Sherlock’s chest is heaving betrays the hard, rhythmic pulsing of his heart, revealing that the screeching panic of it all only served to excite the detective more. This would wreck them. It was a guilty indulgence of it all that made it more perfect. John wondered if Sherlock could process all of it or if he was experiencing some sort of sensory overload. </p><p>Air rests on his skin, warm and heavy, and, for a moment, John is afraid Sherlock is second guessing himself. But they can't go back now. Not after this. They can't go back to normal. Sherlock doesn't say anything, but the look in his eyes is enough. It's a begging, fiery look that draws John closer.</p><p>He is going to hell or to paradise. John did not really know which ticket he'd bought to get on this mind-blowing ride. Either way, he was going to enjoy it. Straddling Sherlock, he reached down, finding the desired destination with ridiculously much ease. Now, earlier in his practice, he'd found the action always a bit embarrassing. Especially to the patient. John always wanted to get it over with as quickly as possible. Being in this current situation and in his current state of mind, John does not know how he could have been so fucking wrong. </p><p>Sherlock, for one, definitely seems to enjoy it, begging him to continue, lose moans slipping from his mouth. Nothing embarrassing to be found there. To reassure him that this is what John absolutely wants too, he kisses the detective fiercely, then slowly, adjusting the rhythm of his kiss to the movement of his fingers. "Got to grab something, hold on." He whispers hoarsely, reluctantly getting up from the sofa to reach for his wallet. He was a doctor, after all.</p><p>With his black, thick curls tousled from the activity,  Sherlock groaned at the loss of touch, watching John with a predatory, mesmerised look. "John, <em> christ- </em> I need you." His voice sounding soft and pleading, "Please."</p><p>The way Sherlock was begging was extremely intoxicating to John, making him drop the condom he was desperately clutching in his hands. "Fuck, sorry, hold on." Smiling softly he added, "I'm not going to hold out for very long if you keep begging like that." </p><p>Getting back on top of him, John pushed Sherlock's legs a bit upward, granting him the access he desperately needed. "This is probably the wrong time to ask whether you've done this before, isn't it?" <em> Don't kill the fucking mood, you idiot. </em></p><p>Sherlock complied by putting his legs over John’s shoulder, sending an exasperated look towards his captor. His answer was a familiar drawl, "Don't be gentle."</p><p>Even if John wanted to be gentle with him, he did not think he could. Not this time. "Okay," was all he could quietly mutter in response. He too had done this before, just not with a man. But then again this was not just a man, this was Sherlock. "O. Fuck." The feeling was excruciatingly delicious. He'd always enjoyed this particular part with women, but with Sherlock, he felt even more powerful, more in control, more in sync with the feelings that were coursing through his mind and body. John knew there was a brief moment of pain as Sherlock’s face scrunched up before relaxing into the rhythmic movements. Their bodies now melted together in a way that made Sherlock roll his head back, soft moans were all his brain could handle. "Fuck-”</p><p>"Y'OK?" John had lost all sense of eloquence right now. "Don't think, I-". <em> Shit</em>, John was going to embarrass himself very soon if he did not take back control of his body.</p><p>"Harder- <em> Christ </em>, John-!"</p><p><em> Shit </em> . He did not know what was happening, but he felt Sherlock literally lose control underneath him. It felt exhilarating. It was extraordinary to witness that he, simple, plain, obvious John was able to reduce such an exceptional mind to such a primal state. Movements were desperate and forceful. Sherlock couldn't bite back whines and groans. Sweat clung to both their skin and, suddenly, the world and the sticky feeling of the sofa beneath him didn't really matter. It was them and this strange strange moment. No time nor room left for Sherlock to deduce, his internal dialogue had snapped from intense analysing to “<em>ohjesuschristfuckinghellharderohfuck”</em>.</p><p>Wedging a hand between them, John desperately wanted to help Sherlock topple over the edge John himself was unquestionably facing. He felt the body underneath him tensing, desperately holding on to him, clinging on to him. John sped up their rhythm, making noises that sounded entirely obscene.</p><p>"I'm so close-"</p><p>His lips parted, he wouldn't last much longer at this rate. He felt Sherlock’s whole body tense and shook before realizing he trickled over John's hand. He had reduced Sherlock to a panting, writhing mess and, just like always, John followed suit. Losing himself so uncontrollably should have been scary, but he knew he was not alone in this physical madness. Coming down from this extraordinary high, he realised he’d never experienced something this intense and forceful before. He pressed a long kiss to Sherlock’s temple, just right above his ear, before withdrawing himself carefully and draping himself on Sherlock’s left side. “Well.” <em> That was unexpectedly fucking amazing. </em></p><p>Sherlock remained silent as minutes passed, staring at the ceiling. John felt the body underneath him tense slightly, knowing Sherlock’s high was subsiding and his brain fog parting. He could practically feel the thoughts spiraling through the detective’s brain, the period of coming down off a tremendous high sinking him the lowest. </p><p>“Stop. Fucking. Thinking.” Seriously, John was having the best post-coital bliss of his fucking life, but he felt Sherlock tensing underneath him. Like John’s high was Sherlock’s ‘post-coital tristesse’. </p><p><em> Unless</em>. </p><p>Craning his neck, he tried to make eye contact with Sherlock, grasping his face in both hands. “See my face? What am I thinking? Deduce it. Come on.” A small smirk formed on his lips.</p><p>Sherlock flinched at his touch, sort of wanting to pull away as if he was caught off guard. Eventually, he unwillingly looked into John’s eyes. "I'm not a mind-reader, John. You're happy clearly, slightly annoyed at me as per usual. You can tell I'm over-complicating everything because it's what I do. And if I wasn't quite so tense you'd want to try and bring up the fact I've done this before." He held his gaze, his eyes tracing over every line in his face.</p><p>It suddenly dawned on John, his face cracking a huge smile. He was experiencing true mirth and happiness at that point. He imagined that he started smiling like a lunatic, but, god, this man. He startled him by dropping a wet kiss on his mouth before he let his head fall on Sherlock's chest, chuckling. "O, God." He did not know what to say at that point and laughing was probably not the best response when one's lover was currently experiencing some sort of mental breakdown. But. Sherlock, who always felt so superior and so confident and sure of himself was... insecure. </p><p>"Why would you want to over-complicate what happened just now? Obviously, you enjoyed it. Obviously, I enjoyed it. Forgive me when I'm wrong, but my conclusion here is: I am head over heels and, apparently, most certainly, not straight." He snorted at that. "Took me, let's say, more than four years to work that one out.”</p><p>"And you feel the same way."</p><p>“Oh.” </p><p>John could see it still hadn’t clicked in Sherlock’s brain, his gaze revealing a vulnerability that John was not familiar with on the detective’s face. He followed Sherlock’s eyes towards their discarded clothing on the ground, realising the detective felt exposed and wanted to cover up whatever had just transpired. </p><p>Looking up, he swallowed audibly, quite nervous for his blunt presumptuousness. Perhaps Sherlock didn’t really want any of the things they'd just done or John had just said. "I-." He started, but he had absolutely no fucking clue what he was supposed to say - or needed to say right now. "It's OK if you don't want this." <em> Not good, John. </em></p><p>“I just need a bit of time.” </p><p>"Time."John frowned his eyes. "Alright." He sat up, not knowing what the hell the detective meant by that. </p><p>Out of the blue, Sherlock laughed quietly, “Can I expect to see this side of you every-time we get chased then?” </p><p>More quietly, John countered, not looking at Sherlock while he redressed himself, "I recall that <em> you </em> let out all your case-aggressiveness, your <em> urges </em> on me first,” stressing almost all words in that sentence. Little did he know that Sherlock would have that effect on him. <em> Christ </em> , who was he even kidding. Of course he knew the sodding bastard had this effect on him. He'd wanted him to. John could tell that he was becoming frustrated by the minute. Not a good sign when you just had sex. <em> With your fucking best friend. </em> He straightened himself, gathering the rest of his clothes that were scattered all over the fucking living room. "Alright. Let's just-". <em> Forget that I just fucked you to oblivion, you tosser. </em>"Tea?" He tried to suppress his exasperation.</p><p>Sherlock tousled his long limbs over the edge of the sofa, grabbing his now crumbled clothes with his hair disheveled, cheeks still rosy- this time from embarrassment more than anything, John surmised when he turned his back to find his retreat into the small bathroom.</p><p>The night was pouring through the windows, no stars in the sky from the pollution of light. Everything was still busy. London never changes. He sat there for a moment, deciding he couldn’t let this end like this. It would ruin so much to leave <em> this </em> with a bad taste in his mouth. </p><p>Having spent the last minutes in the bathroom, John re-entered the living room dressed, terribly debauched, and somewhat angry at the way things had eventually turned out. He worried that their actions had set something off that they were not yet ready for. </p><p>Sherlock stood in front of the window, playing his violin with those long, musical fingers. He painted such a dramatic, beautiful picture that it made John sad to know that he was probably the cause of him turning to the safe haven of his music. He recognized the soft melody as his favorite song. The one that left him to feel at ease, comforted. He knew what the detective was doing, he was reassuring him somehow. Of what?</p><p>It was getting later and later, and the clock had already struck 3 am. Tomorrow, it would be a Sunday, and he'd promised Molly to return as soon as possible. Leaving this flat now, however, felt more final than anything. In his oblivious mind, he did not know what the best course of action was at this point. He absolutely wanted to refrain from doing something he or <em> they </em> most certainly would regret later.</p><p>"Sherlock?" The detective was absorbed in his music, he could tell, but John also knew that he was listening with one ear, especially considering everything that had just transpired.</p><p>"Do you- um." <em> Christ</em>. "How do you feel-" About me staying here? About me moving back in? About me helping you catch these deadly, severing witches?</p><p>As the piece pulled to a finish, Sherlock put the violin down with tender care. “I need you here. We can forget about everything that just happened if you want. Chalk it up to adrenaline making us do stupid things. Nothing has to change.” He perched himself on the arm of his chair, “We weren’t thinking properly, it would be a shame for half an hour to ruin years worth of- whatever it is we had.” </p><p>Sherlock looked at him with a deadpan expression and John felt his heart sink at Sherlock's words, and he knew it was showing on his face. He knew Sherlock could be such a coldhearted, rational bastard, but he had not expected it anymore after seeing and feeling him let go. What had he missed? </p><p>He knew Sherlock would be able to forget about all that had happened. To delete everything that had just transpired as if he was wiping off the dust from a window sill with one swift movement. To continue as if nothing had changed. But everything had changed. Considerably. Horribly, even.</p><p>"Need me. How?" <em> Fuck</em>, John cringed at hearing his own voice sound so broken. "I don't think I can - How did you phrase it? 'Chalk it all up to adrenaline to forget that we just fucked?' "</p><p>And so it happened again. John’s hurt morphing into a deadly form of aggressiveness. His therapist used to describe this phase as his most 'unfunctional' phase. A tad more mildly put than the description he once heard from an ex-teenage girlfriend. She used to refer to him as the 'pufferfish'. Soft and hard on the outside, but when poked in the wrong way very explosive and lethal. If you did not watch out, you would choke on its venom.</p><p>“What do you want, John? I want you around. It’s just sex- it doesn’t have to be anymore than that.” The detective sat still, avoiding looking at him when he continued in a softer tone of voice, “It doesn’t have to matter.”</p><p>“You just want me around! To what?” <em> Lethal</em>. John was shouting now. He’d moved forward so that he was standing next to his old chair, a few inches away from Sherlock’s rigid posture. John felt so fucking angry that he felt that he was about to combust. “To follow you around on fucking cases? To praise you? To make you fucking tea? To what? To fuck you? Tell me!” </p><p>Sherlock remained seated, looking at him still with that infuriating deadpan expression. “ ‘It doesn’t have to matter’ Because it did not matter to you, right?” John groaned, swirling on his feet and advancing towards the door. He was moving so fast that his thoughts did not even have time to process his actions. </p><p>Grabbing his coat he dared to look back one last time at Sherlock before he left, slamming the door behind him in the process. “It doesn’t  fucking matter to you.”</p><p>John had stormed downstairs, ignoring Mrs Hudson’s troubled face and voiced concern for them. He’d ran outside, past the wall Sherlock had pushed him against. Had kissed <em> him</em>. He still sees the deadly expression in front of him. How he’d been so cold heartedly dismissed as a functionality. A means to pass time. </p><p>A painful cry escaped his lips as he almost toppled over because of his haste. He was breathing erratically, leaning on his thighs to suppress the pain, the hurt, the fear, the loss. In his derailed, hurt state, John does not even hear a car stopping next to him. Upon looking up, he sees the familiar black limousine with the back window rolled down. </p><p>
  <em> No. Not this time.  </em>
</p><p>He ignores the shout of his name and starts walking to the tube station. The streets are almost deserted at this hour so he is alone in his flight, trying to keep ahead of the car following him. </p><p>At the crossing, John ignores the red light and has to stop from being run over by the mother fucking limousine. </p><p>“Back the fuck off!” He yells as he slams the hood of the car in his passing.</p><p>“John, please.” Mycroft calls after him, his voice resonating through the empty streets. </p><p>“Ask <em> him.</em> Ask him.” He bellows before disappearing underground. </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Out of the Woods Part I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Why a detective should never venture alone into the woods without a doctor.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mycroft told his driver to turn around to Baker Street. When he swung the door open to the dusty, cluttered apartment his brother occupied, said brother poked up his head to stare daggers at him. He’d seen his brother in many states- the most prominent one of them being a drugged unconscious state- but never in the more than 40 years he’d been alive had he seen his brother this devastated.</p><p>Quickly scanning the room, Mycroft recognised the trails of a lost physical fight. The doctor and Sherlock had fought, then, he surmised. Looking at his brother, however, he did not see any bruises forming, nor did he see any signs of blood. <em> Good</em>. A verbal fight then. It was a start. </p><p>Mycroft tried to sit down in John’s chair, but his brother’s glare intensified at his very movement. Sighing unevenly, he decided to lean against the damn furniture instead. “Yesterday, I was somewhat concerned about the text messages I received from you mobile. They all expressed the abundant part of flesh that seems to be attached to a certain part of your lower autonomy. Then- “ he went on, softening his voice, “It came to my attention that you and the good doctor renewed your partnership, investigating <em> graffiti signs </em> and <em> tattoos</em>.” </p><p>Sherlock remained silent, his eyes unfocussing before closing them completely. “Considering the state you’re currently in and how your partner left this appartement, I ask you. What do you need me to do?” If Sherlock wanted him to, he could harass the ex-army doctor, kidnap him back to Baker Street, or do worse.</p><p>“Don’t do anything. Just leave him alone,” was Sherlock’s only response, the low timbre sounding dreary and distressed. </p><p>---</p><p>The lights in John’s flat were out and everything felt so serene and quiet in comparison to Baker Street. As he’d expected, Molly had taken the spare bedroom adjacent to his and Rosie’s. Checking on his daughter and touching the softness of her hair, he let the tears fall. It was<em>the  fall </em> all over again, but somehow, it felt more final now. </p><p>“I’m sorry I left you alone today.” He whispered to his daughter’s sleeping form as he sank to the floor and rested his head against the bars of her crib.</p><p>John silently wept hot, painful tears, realising he probably lost his best friend, his best man, his partner. For good.</p><p>----</p><p>A week had passed and, during that week, John had tried - hopelessly - not to think about anything that had transpired that dreadful Saturday. He had even tried to forget the memorial, the church, the witch hunt, Malina...</p><p>Malina.</p><p><em> 'Take action before it is too late. Again'</em>. </p><p>Well, John had taken action. More precisely, John had followed what he thought he desired at that point. And where did that leave him? Mother fucking alone, grieving the loss of a friend and the start of something new altogether. </p><p>His days at the clinic had been dreadful, boring. A fact that he felt reflected in the renewed tremor in his dominant hand and in the nagging pain in his leg. He had tried to ignore all that too. He even considered moving to a different city, to start anew. Being able to forget everything and anything that has to do with a certain consulting detective. </p><p>To no avail, however.</p><p>The thousands of text messages he'd received from Molly and from Mycroft over the week had not helped to take his mind off from the pain he was feeling. They wanted him to return to Baker Street, to <em> 'save Sherlock from the state he was in'</em>, but he was also in quite some state, <em> thank you very much</em>, and he was not the instigator of all this fucking drama.</p><p>Sherlock mother fucking Holmes was. </p><p>The bastard had kissed him. Had <em> seduced </em>him. Had made him feel as if Pandora's box was finally allowed to be open to reveal all her treasures, only to drop all of her curses onto John in the aftermath. </p><p>So, that's why John did nothing. He ate, he slept, he cared for his daughter and for the patients in his clinic like the good GP he was.</p><p>John’s mundane routine was disturbed when he received a rather absurd text message during his lunch break at the clinic.</p><p>'The forest of the dead welcomes your friend' </p><p><em> What the fuck? </em> </p><p>The sender's identity was unknown, so John dismissed it as being some weird spam message and  made a silent promise to himself that, from now on, he wasn't using his mobile for looking up porn again.</p><p>When he prepared himself for his next client, a little boy with a mild form of asthma, John heard his phone chime again. A nervous flutter started in his stomach, thinking for a moment he would see two familiar initials pop up on the screen. Quickly checking his mobile, John saw that the same anonymous number sent him an attachment. </p><p>Intrigued, the doctor opened it, eyes bulging wide when he noticed he was seeing a hand that was fucking cut off. A left, female hand, with pink nail polish. Several rings still attached to the fingers, but no wedding ring. The hand had probably belonged to a young, teenage girl. </p><p>"Fucking hell."</p><p>---</p><p>Running in the city center of London, John tried once again to contact Sherlock but reaching the bastard’s voicemail once again. "Fucking hell, pick up!" John roared into his phone. The goddamn bastard was probably ignoring him. Aggravated and worried, John tried a different number.</p><p>"Greg, yes. Did you reach him? <em> Fuck</em>! John was running now, crossing busy streets, having no clue where he should go only to find that his legs brought him back to Baker Street. </p><p>"Where is he off to then? Mrs. Hudson said he left Baker Street this morn- What did you just say?" John stopped in his track, covering his other ear to make sure he’d understand every word Greg was telling him. </p><p>Apparently, security cameras had last seen Sherlock near the park at the memorial, running frantically towards the adjacent forest. </p><p>"Shit." </p><p>
  <em> Forest of the dead. </em>
</p><p>----</p><p>The park was deserted and no disturbing sounds were coming from the woods. With his SIG at the ready, John ventured into the dense forest, making sure he was not making any sound.</p><p>Where the hell was Sherlock?</p><p>It was getting later in the afternoon, the sun descending and basking the forest in a warm, afternoon glow. He tried his phone again, only to realise he had no signal between the large, dense trees. "Shit." He groaned once again, coming to a halt. John had no idea which direction the detective had gone, so his attempts to run into any direction would be meaningless and foolish.</p><p>Suddenly, John's phone got a signal and he was ready to speed-dial Sherlock once again when he received a new text message from the same anonymous sender. </p><p>'In the North, there are worthier threes'</p><p>What the hell was that supposed to mean? <em> In the North...  </em></p><p>It suddenly dawned on him then and he turned around to start running in the other direction of the forest, completely forgetting his intentions to be quiet. </p><p>
  <em> In the north. They were in the northern part of the woods. </em>
</p><p>Running as fast as he could, John stopped when a familiar smell penetrated through his nostrils. </p><p>Burned meat. </p><p>Probably burned flesh, given the picture John’d received earlier. His stomach churned at the memory of him being trapped underneath a large pile of burning wood, almost being fried to death if it hadn't been for Sherlock.</p><p><em> Sherlock</em>. </p><p>Creeping forward, he stopped when he heard and saw three women and one man walk around a small bonfire, stripped naked to the day they were born. John couldn't quite make out their faces, but their bodies betrayed that two ladies were remarkably older than the other female, and the male also showed some significant signs of deterioration.  </p><p>One of the older women left the bonfire and stepped to the right. John followed her movements, hiding low to the ground and behind the surrounding trees. It was then that he noticed the woman had walked towards three other bound bodies on the ground, one of them being a very irritated, disoriented detective. </p><p><em> O for the love of god</em>.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Out of the Woods Part II</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Heed the warnings: mentioning of dead, mutilated bodies.</p><p>This is the final chapter, we hope you enjoyed it!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>John noticed that a girl was propped next to Sherlock and he assumed it to be Felicity. Her skin was flaking, slowly decomposing as nature ran its course over her body. If John wasn’t so used to spending time with Sherlock’s experiments or in a morgue, the sight of where her hands had clearly been severed would’ve made him gag. Her lips lost all colour and her head had rolled forward. Just by the looks of it, John knew the smell would be awful. </p><p>The detective squirmed against his bindings and John wondered why the martial art expert didn’t break free. After a few fruitless attempts, Sherlock stopped for a moment and looked down at his wrists which had started to bleed from just how tight it was. </p><p>“What’s going on?” Sherlock called out again, only to get no response from his captors. Trashing one last time, John saw that he gave up, disappearing in his mind to come up with some sort of ploy John knew wasn’t going to work with these madmen. </p><p>One of the naked women picked up the young girl and dragged it away from Sherlock, John could hear his friend curse at the position he was in. Following the woman, he saw that she brought the body to a hole they had dug underneath a giant oak tree. Soon, a naked man appeared behind her, dragging the detective with him. Sherlock thrusted his head back in an attempt to ward off being dragged, but it was to no avail. “For fuck sake will someone tell me what the hell is going on?” </p><p>The man ignored Sherlock’s burning anger and addressed the naked woman near the tree, “Shouldn’t we sacrifice something off him too, before we give him to Mother Nature?” </p><p>"No, we need the detective as bait, my dear." John recognised that voice. Where had he heard that voice before?</p><p>"An <em> unwanted irrevocable match </em> is what we require. So, we must wait for the match to arrive. He should be here very shortly." She gestured for the man to help her drag the young girl’s body under the tree. </p><p>The way the woman moved and sounded made all alarm bells go off in John’s brain.</p><p>No way. </p><p>
  <em> Felicity's mother. </em>
</p><p>"And," Malina continued with a somewhat laboured voice, "our dear detective is not spiritually natured as the girl." She chuckled, "Help me with Selina here, will you?" </p><p>They had been fooled.</p><p>Out of the corner of his eye, he saw that Sherlock had begun to thrash harder against his binds, ignoring how the cold metal was digging into his flesh. John noticed Sherlock’s coat was soiled with blood and, although he couldn’t see the detective’s eyes, he knew they must be burning with an unmatched rage he hadn’t felt in some time. </p><p>Sherlock’s hands were bound with two pairs of handcuffs and when his friend moved around frantically, the male figure kicked him in the stomach, causing Sherlock to shriek out in pain and roll over. </p><p>
  <em> That's it.  </em>
</p><p>A shot rang out, echoing through the woods and causing the naked asshole to topple over in the damn, fucking hole. </p><p>"Well, that's one sacrifice more, isn't it?" John said to the naked, old woman who did not show any shock at the dead body of her friend nor at seeing John's figure emerge from the deeper part of the forest.</p><p>John quickly glanced towards his bound friend, whose face turned ashen upon recognising him. </p><p>“John-” Sherlock sounded exasperated and John averted his gaze to block the detective’s state of distress from his mind. He had given up fighting with the ropes, just sinking down now and his body crawling with a horrid pain. It wouldn’t do them any good to panic right now if they wanted to get out of this mess. </p><p>"It was inevitable,” Malina sighed. “I'm glad you came, dear doctor." She had the audacity to smile at him. </p><p>"Care to explain what you're doing here, mmh?" John heard footsteps behind him and he turned around, pointing his gun at the two naked ladies in front of him. One he definitely recognised as Felicity. </p><p>"Don't you dare come any closer for I will most definitely kill you."</p><p>He heard Malina sigh behind him again, "My dear, we do not care about our lives. We care about making up for the pain we have caused our planet, our nature. We are, as we should say, a wanted, unlucky match." </p><p>The deranged woman approached John from behind, who rearranged himself so that he had all three women under gun-shot.</p><p>"Your friend," Malina said, looking at Sherlock's writhing body, "is bleeding terribly." John had seen the bloody stains on the detectives' coat, hoping against all knowledge the blood did not belong to him. <em> So much for that.  </em></p><p>"All he needs is for you to help him. Help us. You two can save the other girl. We can do that for you two," she dared to approach John now. </p><p>"How?" He gritted through his teeth. </p><p>"By descending together with him," she glanced at the detective, "to nature." She held up her hand when John wanted to scream, to yell at her mental blabbering-</p><p>"We can only finish this if we sacrifice an unwanted match. After you visited me, I knew we could not go after Michael anymore- the police are monitoring him non-stop nowadays." She sighed, getting onto her knees next to Sherlock, brushing his sweaty hair out of his face.</p><p>"Don't you dare fucking touch him!"</p><p>Chuckling, she looked up to John and responded, "Michael and Selina were having an affair. Totally unholy to his Church's standards of course, and I believe poor Selina did not care much for his advances. But, after you came after me, we needed a replacement. What a surprise it was to read your tea leaves."</p><p>“John, please, it’s not worth it. Think about Rosie.” Sherlock did not move as Malina touched him, his eyes locked onto John’s, his look urging John to shoot her or to just walk away. </p><p>“John, just go.” Sherlock couldn’t barely get the words out, exhaustion rippling him and making his voice sound hoarse and quiet; it was barely audible.</p><p>“Please-”</p><p>"Shut up!" He shouted at Sherlock, seeing Malina's eyes gleam with pleasure. </p><p>"Oh, so drawn to one another, but so imperfect, undesirable and unwanted. It's perfect." </p><p>"Well, see, that's where you're utterly, horribly wrong." John hissed, pure outrage tainting his features. He glanced at Sherlock's pleading but frowning and confused face. <em> O, for the love of god. </em></p><p>"It's my understanding," he continued looking at Malina, "that you have to call off this ritual altogether." </p><p>"Do explain, dear." Malina voiced, sounding intrigued. </p><p>"Sherlock," he turned his attention to the body on the ground next to him. Raising his eyebrows, John continued, "Do you consider us to be an unwanted match?"</p><p>John knew from the look Sherlock was giving him that he was on the verge of saying something along the lines of ‘No, John, but I very much want you to stop being a fucking ass and just shoot her already’. Instead, he just shook his head and murmured, </p><p>“Not a bit.”</p><p>“Right.” </p><p>Maintaining eye contact with Malina John continued, “And I agree with that statement.” He saw Malina’s face contract a little bit, before she audibly sighed again and straightened her posture. </p><p>“You Englishmen are fascinating ,” she breathed, regarding them as if she was seeing them for the first time. </p><p>“Extraordinary.” He frowned at her now, quickly glancing down at Sherlock if he understood what she meant by that. Sherlock, however, was looking at him with a face like ‘take her out, John. Right fucking <em> now'.</em> </p><p>“Right.” He said again, looking back at Malina and shooting her in the hip, quickly swirling around to see the two ladies run away from him. He smiled as their naked bums disappeared from view. Lestrade would not know what he saw running out of the woods, walking straight into his arms. Smirking, he looked back at Sherlock who looked a little bit pissed off. </p><p>“See,” he said, crunching down next to him, “they also have a lot of fat on their arses and they still chose to go for the hands.”</p><p>Sherlock let out a sigh of relief. “What a weird day.” He mused, looking up at John. “Before you leave, would you mind undoing the rope?”</p><p>Up close Sherlock looked a frightful mess. Splotches of blood served to be the only colour on him. He was more pale than normal and he looked like he’d lost weight too. There were deep bags under his eyes. It was clear that even before this happened, something was definitely off with him. He put on a weary smile before letting it drop. </p><p>“Yes, there you go. I am going to shoot the handcuffs now. Please, hold your hands out for me.” </p><p>John shot the cuffs and watched Malina crawl away with her injured leg. She would not get far, anyway. </p><p>“Sherlock?” He grabbed the man’s face with both hands, talking softly. “I’m going to check your body right now, I need to see where you’re hurt.” </p><p>It was so easy to switch back in army-doctor mode. He carefully rubbed Sherlock’s wrists, noticing the red engravings and the traces of his last high on his lower arms. He’d used drugs in John’s absence. Cringing, John almost growled, “You and I are going to have to talk about this.”</p><p>Roaming his hands over Sherlock’s chest, he felt his right hand return with a dense stickiness. “You’ve been stabbed in your left side. It’s not too deep, but we don’t know what else they’ve hit.”</p><p>John knew Sherlock wanted to argue back and he was a bit surprised as the detective remained silent, undoing the ropes around his legs and standing up slowly. </p><p>Sherlock put a hand against the elm to steady himself. Running a finger over where he’d been stabbed and groaning at the discomfort. “Did you contact Lestrade?”</p><p>“Yes,” John said as he dragged the shrieking woman back to where Sherlock was standing. “Can you walk? We can also leave her here, and I can carry you back.” He was rattling now, because it was nerve racking to see Sherlock again, especially in his hurt, bleeding state. He walked up to him, letting loose of the woman’s arms. Standing in front of him, he touched the detective’s face. John was going to say something reassuring, kind. How he was glad Sherlock was alive. How fucking much he’d missed and hated him at the same time. But John was never very good with words or feelings, let alone at ignoring feelings that resembled anger. </p><p>“You promised me to never run off again without me, and what do you do? You go after witches alone. Witches who want your fucking arse underneath a damn tree.”</p><p>After a small pause he added in a soft whisper, a smile on his face. “And I am so fucking attached to your arse. It would be a real shame.”</p><p>John felt and saw Sherlock’s breathing hitch, aquamarine eyes searching his own in a doubtful haze. For a moment, Sherlock stood still before he moved to wrap his arms around John. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>As soon as arms wrapped themselves around him, John’s own came alive, hugging Sherlock back with force and hiding his face in the detective’s neck. “Me too. God, me too.” It truly was extraordinary how they always ended up like this. Extreme heights and extreme lows. And he knew he could not live without it. </p><p>“Please, let me return.” He whispered, afraid this moment would pass between them, disappearing in an endless void of unspoken sorrow. “We can forget what happened. If that is what you want.”</p><p>Unnerneath his arms, he felt Sherlock wince, probably due to his stab wound that was unromantically bleeding on the both of them. Unlike his composure, his voice sounded composed and determined. “I don’t want to forget what happened. I mean it. I don’t know what it means for us, but I’m okay with that.” Sherlock held him at arm's length for a moment, looking into the muddy colours of John’s eyes. </p><p>“You have to promise to never leave again. If you come back and go again, I’m not sure I can deal with that.” Sherlock was opening up again. A brief glimpse behind it all. He was swallowing his pride, what little he had left of it. </p><p>And everything fell into place again. He truly didn’t know what the future would look like for the two of them. He didn’t mind either way. </p><p>Sherlock’s lips were tugging into a small smile and John felt his heart burst. He knew that the happiness that was suddenly coursing through his body was showing on his face. He felt himself smiling like a lunatic.</p><p>Sherlock cared. </p><p>No, Sherlock <em> loved</em>. Him.</p><p>Sherlock loved him. </p><p>Unmistakably. </p><p>Irrevocably.</p><p>And trust Sherlock to make his emotional display explosive. Bleeding in John’s arms, blue eyes ablaze, searching for John’s acknowledgement, Sherlock had opened up and let John in. And John was happy to barge in when giving the opportunity to do so.</p><p>“Amazing. Brilliant.” He let out, staring in those aquamarine eyes in front of him, clutching on to Sherlock’s coat.</p><p>“Did you just sort of propose to me?” </p><p>“I suppose I did.” </p><p>Sherlock laughed and took in a breath before whispering in a voice so slight as if he were scared to hear himself say it. </p><p>“I do love you, John.” </p><p>John knew Sherlock had said it a million times before. Not in words, but in his actions. Now, however, it was out in the open and John wanted to tell him that everyday too. Pointless sentiment now meaning the world to them.</p><p>“Fuck, yes.”</p><p>John was not a man of many words, never so eloquent as the crazy, delirious madman in front of him. Instead, John was a man of action. Especially if words failed him. So, he kissed him. </p><p>Fiercely. </p><p>Lovingly. </p><p>Grasping Sherlock’s hair, holding him in place. “I fucking love you too, you bastard.” He managed to get out. As he broke contact, he saw how affected Sherlock was by his blunt kiss. </p><p>“Please let me carry you back before you bleed to death Shakespeare style.” He grabbed Sherlock’s right arm and threw it around his shoulders. Looking at Malina, he noticed that she was returning his gaze with grief in her eyes. </p><p>“Well. My advice, get some new leaves when you get out of jail.”</p><p>They approached a sound of police sirens and a very pleasantly confused Lestrade. Judging by the looks on their faces and how flustered Sherlock seemed, they must be aware that something most definitely had finally happened. Their smiles were infectious, as Lestrade easily returned it regardless of the state the doctor and detective were in. </p><p>“Are you alright? We’re just going in to check if the other hostages are safe-,” the Detective Inspector started. </p><p>“- He needs medical care,” John grunted towards the medics approaching him. “Abdominal stab wound on the left, not deep, but definitely not superficial either.” Handing Sherlock over to their care, he strode over to Greg. </p><p>“Two victims, both dead. I think the girl whose hands were severed off goes by the name of Selina. You will also find a deceased male - I shot him because he was threatening Sherlock.” <em> Liar</em>. </p><p>“The woman with the gun wound in her hip is, we believe, the instigator or ‘criminal mind’ behind all this shit.” Running his hands through his hair, John felt suddenly very tired. Exhausted. </p><p> “They were offering the bodies to bloody trees. <em> Fuck</em>. They wanted to sacrifice Sherlock to a fucking Elm tree.” He must look quite desperate right now to Greg.</p><p>“Look, it’s fine. You can go and we can talk it over tomorrow.” The Detective Inspector hesitated before saying, “I hope things work out between you two.” </p><p>John found Sherlock waiting in one of Mycroft’s cars, a mixture of a sickly sweet feeling and the pain of quite literally being stabbed made for an interesting combination on the detective’s face. “Well, that was fun.” John tried to smirk, but he was far too concerned about the medical state he’d found his friend? Partner? Lover? <em> Sherlock </em>in.</p><p>“You ok?” He squinted at Sherlock’s chest, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, only that Sherlock was breathing somewhat superficially. “Witches almost ate you alive,” he muttered. Looking outside his window, he silently grabbed Sherlock’s right hand. He held it for a few moments, before grabbing it with both his hands and placing it in his lap.</p><p>“Well. I’ve been stabbed and tied up for an hour. But, overall I’m in a good mood.” He felt Sherlock’s curls touch the side of his face before the detective rested his head on John’s shoulder. “Good thing I live with a doctor.” </p><p>As the car pulled into Baker Street, they walked into the flat, Sherlock’s movements not as smooth as they normally were. He evidently laid himself down on the couch, small red stains printing themselves on the leather.</p><p>“Are you bleeding again?” John crouched in front of Sherlock on his knees, his hands exploring the bandage wrapped around his lower chest. After a second of inspection, John decided that it definitely needed redoing. </p><p>Getting his phone out and putting it on speaker, John answered Molly’s worried voice, “We’re ok, don’t worry. Listen, Molly, I know it’s a huge favour to ask but -</p><p>Could you get Rosie from daycare and bring her over to Baker Street? Including some of the essentials, like clothes, toys-“ He paused to look at Sherlock to know how he was taking all this. </p><p>They were, after all, moving back in.</p><p>Sherlock’s smile only broadened. “John, you’re turning me soft,” he murmured, still unable to wipe the grin off his face. </p><p>“Soft?” John chuckled. “Don’t know whether a man wants to hear that,” he winked. Sherlock probably didn’t get it, but that was ok. He got up groaning, cleaning the dust from his knees. “Well, I’m going to take you to bed- I mean.” He smiled, licking and biting his lower lip before continuing, “You,” he pointed at Sherlock, “are going to bed. Sleep. Rest. Whatever.” </p><p>“And, I’m going to make the upstairs bedroom ready for Rosie. I’ll order in, so I might wake you later just to eat and to renew your bandage.” Softer, he asked, “Agreed?”</p><p>“Fine fine- if you’re sharing a room with me I might actually have to tidy up for once.” Sherlock stood up, aching legs staggering across the room. He turned his head around towards the window when he heard a car pull up to the entrance of the street, leaving a few seconds later.</p><p>“You might want to check the front door,” he drawled as he left a bewildered John behind in the living room. </p><p>Descending the stairs and opening the front door, John noticed a rather large package left outside stamped with the words ‘from Mycroft’ written in beautiful italics. John quickly peered inside to find perfectly hand carved pieces of oak wood, unmistakingly belonging to a toddlers bed.</p><p>Mycroft had caught the infectious smile that day too.</p>
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